


A Dragonlover's Guide to Surviving Life in the Weyr

by rainproof



Series: The Weyrwolves of Pern [3]
Category: Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dragons, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Human, Bullying, Consent is Sexy, Crushes, Dragon Mating Cycles/In Heat, Dragon Riders, F/F, F/M, M/M, Original Dragon Character - Freeform, Original Dragon Characters - Freeform, Threadfall (Dragonriders of Pern), tiny baby dragons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-27 07:33:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 33,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12076449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainproof/pseuds/rainproof
Summary: For all that Stiles of Pern had spent years daydreaming about impressing a dragon of his very own, he’d spent substantially less time considering what would happen between the blissful moment the Impression bond was formed and the triumphant, glorious searing of Thread from the sky.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> FINALLY. Two years, two intercontinental + one interstate move, one postgraduate degree and a fancy new job later this story is FINALLY COMPLETE. Thank you to anyone who tuned in back in 2015, anyone who left me inspiring feedback, and anyone who waited this long for a sequel -- I am so, so sorry to have kept you waiting. To anyone reading this AU for the very first time.... This story was a labor of love and I genuinely, truly hope you enjoy the hell out of it.
> 
> This is a direct sequel to the first two parts of the series. I recommend that you read at least part 1 for things to make sense.
> 
>  
> 
>  **Notes:** In brief, Thread is an interplanetary organism that drops from the Red Star. The Red Star itself is a misnomer, as the body is in reality a stray planet that crosses Pern's orbit every few hundred years. Thread is parasitic by nature -- when it launches from the Red Star, its thick protective shell is burned away in Pern's atmosphere and the slimy thread-like inner spores fall to the surface of the planet, wreaking havoc on Pern by devouring any and all organic material. Extreme heat and extreme cold are the only things known to destroy Thread. In this story (and many of the actual books), most Pernese residents don't understand what Thread is, only what it does. Dragons are able to chew a local phosphine rock resource called firestone, which combines with gasses in their stomachs and allows them to belch flame. As firestone is believed to render female dragons infertile, golds do not flame -- instead their riders use flamethrowers in the fight.  
>     
> Mating flights feature prominently in this story, so here's a quickie version of the draconic birds and the bees. When a female (gold or green only) dragon goes into heat, their telepathic bond with their human means that they share in the dragon's lust/arousal. The dragons are encouraged to feed and drink the blood of their kill, to keep them light enough to fly long distances. The female then takes off and flies far and high with the males chasing her -- when the male catches her, they couple until forced to break away before striking the ground. Riders can resist the shared urge to mate during their dragon's heat, but it's difficult. Additionally, due to their telepathic nature, dragon heat can affect the emotions and desires of other riders (who participate or do not participate in the flight) as well as sensitive non-riders both in the weyr and in the path of the mating flight.  
>   
> Finally, Pernese dragons are also able to travel _between_ , the colloquial term for teleporting between two locations. Dragonriders provide an image of where they want to go, and the dragons take them there. The space between places if freezing cold, and if a dragon stays there too long both they and their rider may die -- so the practice is dangerous and forbidden to weyrlings, children, pregnant women, etc.
> 
>  **Warnings:**  
>  -This story contains both physical and emotional bullying.  
> -It also contains draconic mating cycles/heats that affect the judgement of their human partners, since they share emotions. This is canon-typical for Pern.  
> -Nobody in this story has a nonconsensual experience related to heats, but there is uncertainty and a conversation about heat cycles blurring consent lines and how to handle the inherent dub-conniness of heats responsibly.

For all that Stiles of Pern had spent years daydreaming about impressing a dragon of his very own, he’d spent substantially less time considering what would happen between the blissful moment the Impression bond was formed and the triumphant, glorious searing of threads from the sky. This lapse in imagination was twofold. Firstly, Beacon Hold – the Hold of his birth – had for many years maintained strained relations with their local weyr. Stiles knew no more of dragons than any man versed only in the teaching songs of youth and the fond memories or youthful stories of those with a genuine, if passing, connection to the weyr.

Secondly, with the terrible promise of Thread on the horizon, Stiles found himself unable to focus on anything _but_ the oncoming danger. Perhaps it was just his semi-anxious personality speaking, but the idea that one day tremulous, quivering _things_ would rain down on Pern, devouring all life and – if allowed to touch the ground – form hideous, pulsing burrows in the earth was… well. It was overwhelming for a boy prone to worrying, particularly a boy who knew that – the year he became a man – the nightmarish stories would all come true.

Fighting thread – as dragonriders did, soaring through the sky and incinerating the deadly projectiles before they could touch Pernese soil – was both glamorous and terrifying. Knowing that any breath could be your last, any lapse of judgment fatal to both yourself and others… it sounded like the ultimate adrenaline rush, the ultimate act of protection and love. His father had protected Stiles for years – Stiles wanted to protect his father and their home in return.

Whatever visions of threadfighting grandeur he had imagined were, sadly, as of yet unrealized.

Stiles had, in the seventh month of that very year, impressed Pern’s most stubborn green dragon; she was the light of his life and newly-born center of his universe, a being telepathically and intrinsically linked to everything he was. Syleth (as she was called, for dragons named themselves at birth) brought out both the best and the worst in Stiles, multiplying his best characteristics and occasionally exacerbating his worst.

She was perfect.

Dreams of threadfighting vanished as Stiles quickly learned that a dragonet, like any infant creature, was a time-consuming and exhausting thing. Where human mothers operated on instinct, caring for and coddling their babies, dragon mothers oversaw the Hatching and then moved on, their part in the affair being utterly concluded. This left new hatchlings in the hands of their human partners, newly paired and telepathically interlocked down to their cores.

New riders were housed in the weyrling wings, a series of long caves hewn into the walls of the volcanic caldera that housed Beacon Weyr. They were essentially simple barracks, warmed by geothermal heat and lined with individual berths. Each sleeping alcove boasted a metal bed and single trunk for any worldly possessions the newly minted riders might have brought with them, as well as a sandy wallow for the hatchlings to sleep in. Each morning, Weyrlingmaster Finstock – a manic brownrider with a strange concept of the word ‘motivational’ – burst through the hanging curtains at the mouth of the cave and blustered/screamed/shouted them awake until rider and dragonet alike were roused and starving. 

(The dragonets were, by Stiles’ estimation, basically nothing but massive scaly stomachs with wings. At four months old Syleth regularly ate thrice what he could put away per meal, inhaling food until her belly was distended and her eyes half-lidded with a second round of sleep.)

After breakfast came baths, and after bathing – a quick affair in the brisk winter months – came a morning nap for the dragonets and the mucking-out of the weyrling quarters. (The floors of the weyrling wing were slightly angled towards a recessed center trough that came in handy when the hatchlings – too young to teleport _between_ when relieving themselves – mussed their sandy berths. Stiles found it endlessly entertaining that the soon-to-be brave and great protectors of Pern were also susceptible to the occasional bed wetting, and was inordinately proud that Syleth grew out of that phase before any of her clutchmates.)

The early afternoons were for dragon maintenance. Stiles learned how, where, and when to oil the soft, easily-torn skin of his draconic companion to keep it soft and supple despite the itchy stretch and pains that accompanied rapid early growth. When Syleth was a tiny hatchling, the answers to ‘how’, ‘where’ and ‘when’ one should oil a dragonet were ‘enthusiastically’, ‘everywhere’ and ‘as much as possible’ – but as her wingspan grew and her muscles multiplied, the oiling slowly tapered off from thrice daily necessity to a soothing afternoon ritual they both enjoyed.

In addition to oiling her skin, Stiles was tasked with cleaning Syleth’s feet, trimming her claws, and checking her teeth and ears for signs of mites or dust. Syleth loved being fussed over, and always cooperated if it meant being the sole focus of Stiles’ attention. He even kept an eye on her fewmets, noting any changes in color or consistency, reassuring himself that her diet was appropriate and the bones she’d gnawed to shards that night before had passed without issue. Most boys of sixteen turns would protest at the idea of probing through dragon droppings to check for health issues – but for a new dragonrider it was a labor of love. Anything that reassured him of Syleth’s health and well-being was well worth the effort.

While the dragons were small, it was not unheard of for both dragon and rider to dine in the Great Hall together. One day soon they would grow too large to fit through the enormous double doors of the cavern; however, until that time the shared meals provided a chance for Stiles, Allison, and other weyrlings to meet and get to know other residents of the weyr. There were two tables in the back set aside for the weyrlings, and meals were laid thrice daily. The dragonets sprawled in the aisles, sneaking bites of cooked meat – which Syleth typically disdained – or soup bones from the tables. Full riders were occasionally come over to inspect the newest arrivals, commenting on their growth or patterns with the sage wisdom of the well-experienced. 

Syleth was small for a green but extremely lithe, boasting a distinctively long and lean body. Her coloring neared to blue in places, and her eyes were shifting slowly from the bright gold of her hatching day to a smooth amber, close to Stiles’ own.

“She could do with more feeding,” other riders would say, inspecting her thoughtfully. “Though her build is good.”

“She reminds me of a thoroughbred runnerbeast,” another admitted, grinning. “Or a racing hound.”

 _‘I am not a hound!’_ Syleth exclaimed, offended. 

‘Racing hounds are the fastest and finest on Pern,’ Stiles said, nudging her with his foot. ‘He means to pay a compliment.’

 _‘It wasn’t much of an effort,’_ Syleth grumbled mentally.

Stiles smiled at the brownrider and reached down to scratch his dragon under her chin. “Allison thinks we are built alike.”

“Aye, that’s often the way of it. Who knows if the dragons grow to look like us, or we grow to look like them?”

“Probably a bit of both,” Stiles admitted, liking the idea. 

Despite the prospect of conversation and information, the Great Hall was a place in which Stiles’ fantasy of weyr life and the reality of his position clashed with unfortunate frequency. 

The other weyrlings tolerated him well enough – some even liked him. Allison’s status as future weyrwoman meant that she was popular by default. While some of their peers genuinely liked Allison, Stiles suspected others were already laying the groundwork for future ambition… for anyone whose dragon mated with Allison’s Lustreth would become junior weyrleader, a coveted honor. Despite her newfound popularity, Allison remained a steadfast and loyal friend, and by virtue of her presence, Stiles was drawn into the limelight and gradually began to draw the attention of his fellow weyrlings. 

He preferred Scott above all the others – Scott was of an age with Allison and Stiles, but had Impressed several turns earlier. He’d transferred to Beacon Weyr to be near his mother, the weyr’s Healer, and spent a lonely year and a half as one of only three senior weyrlings in Beacon, all of them transfers. Technically, the recent hatching and arrival of a Junior weyrling wing meant that Scott should be bumped up to full wingrider status. Finstock, however, relied on him heavily as a teaching assistant and had repeatedly refused to sign off on his promotion.

“Doesn’t that piss you off?” Stiles would ask, brow furrowed at the indignity of spending four entire years as a weyrling. “You could be training to fight thread in earnest, and instead you’re babysitting the new kids.”

Scott would only shrug. “I dunno. There were only three of us in my wing. It’s nice to sit in on the classes and duties again and learn them as a team. The company’s better this time around too,” he’d grinned, eyes sliding from Stiles to Allison, sitting on the other side of the room. 

“I’ll bet,” Stiles snorted, returning to his work. 

Scott had been smitten with Allison since the moment she set foot in Beacon Weyr. That suggested, in Stiles’ opinion, that his feelings were genuine and not an attempt to climb socially. Stiles was glad that Allison and Scott had found one another, but also terribly jealous of their connection. When your two best friends in the world were an item, you were reduced to a third wheel most of the time you were all together.

Outside of Scott and Allison, Stiles was not the most popular of residents at Beacon Weyr. If Allison and Scott were too wrapped up with their all-engrossing love affair to notice the small, subtle ways Stiles was brushed off or put down by other residents of the weyr, well, that was fine. All they could do was worry, and Stiles could handle himself perfectly fine without them.

It was little things at first, things so small that Stiles thought he was imagining them. The washerwomen would neatly fold the clean clothes of other weyrlings, yet return his in a crumbled heap. His morning bread seemed to perpetually consist of the tough, stale heels of the previous day’s loaves instead of the warm, soft centers of that morning’s fare. He seemed to always end up with the rawest or blackest portions of roast, and the apples at his table were often wormy and soft, grooved with indentations from the wicker storage baskets they were kept in.

One morning in autumn, Allison reached for the basket of fruit closest to Stiles and took a massive bite of an apple, revealing a dead worm in the core of it. She gasped and dry-heaved in disgust, spitting chunks of apple across her trencher as Stiles swore and fumbled for a napkin. As Allison gagged and rinsed her mouth out with fresh water, one of the kitchen drudges – a blonde boy with icy eyes and a drawn face – appeared from nowhere and groveled at her elbow, apologizing profusely for the poor quality of the food. He offered to bring her fresh fare, but Allison – looking green and entirely devoid of her appetite – had excused herself instead.

“I’ll take one,” Stiles told him, pushing the bowl of questionable fruit back into the drudge’s hands.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the teen said, watery eyes sliding away to the left. “I’ve just remembered we’ve run completely out.”

Thus it was that Stiles narrowed down the culprits to a group of cavern drudges, all close to his age or perhaps a little older. He remembered well the second brief conversation he’d shared with bronzerider Derek, in which the older rider had warned him that the weyrbrats might resent his newfound status since he was not a formal candidate. These pranks were harmless, and quite clearly designed to garner a reaction, so Stiles very carefully dedicated himself to providing none whatsoever. 

The leader of the pack appeared to be a weak-chinned, brown-haired boy named Trisan. Stiles took care to smile at him, thank him, and be as polite as possible (even when the taste of bread heel was stuck in his craw). He skipped meals, and when he did dine in the hall he stuck to morning porridge he ladled himself from the big central pot, passed on the roast, and occasionally slipped his apples from those stocked in Melissa’s infirmary. It was a neat solution that did not invite more trouble by incriminating his tormentors, yet allowed him to go about his daily life with a minimum of interference. 

If, as the weeks went by, Trisan’s pranks grew more and more obnoxious, well. Let him writhe in jealousy. He would never make a dragonrider – and would never have Syleth. Stiles had already won this contest.

Despite the ongoing drama, not all of Stiles’ experiences in the Great Hall were bad. Older riders tended to like him, particularly those riding blue or brown dragons, all of whom were male. In the rank of weyr hierarchy, bronzes – and some ambitious browns – strove to fly the golden queens and achieve both rank and hatchlings of their own. For most browns and blues, however, mating potential was found in the sensual female greens, and new greenriders – male or female – were often the subject of speculation and fawning attention. Stiles wasn’t dumb enough to think it was his personality they were admiring when they came over to chat with him – he was younger than most other greenriders, but had a quick wit and slim figure, traits that would appeal to a certain number of older riders. Stiles knew that green dragons matured the earliest and rose to mate with greater frequency than their golden sisters, though they never conceived and laid clutches of eggs. Still, Syleth would not rise to mate for another two turns at least. 

Perhaps by then he would find someone worth flying her.

•○•

The weyrlings, from the beginning, had one afternoon every two sevendays off. When Syleth was newly hatched, Stiles generally used that window to nap or sun beside her, curled up against the warm, smooth scales of her body and relishing her presence.

As she grew and Stiles’ perpetual exhaustion diminished, however, he found himself thinking often of Beacon Hold. 

It wasn’t that he was homesick, per se – it was impossible to miss home when Syleth was _here_ and they were _together_. He did, however, miss his father, and sometimes that missing bled over into Syleth’s awareness, causing her a low-grade level of distress that Stiles could feel in his bones. 

It took an entire month before Stiles found the time – and worked up the nerve – to seek out Derek Hale.

He couldn’t speak to Derek in the Great Hall – not in a place so public, where a new greenrider approaching a bronzerider as strikingly handsome and high-ranked as Derek would look desperate or conniving. It left precious few other options, though. Derek moved in circles totally separate from Stiles, and when Stiles spotted him across the weyr’s great caldera feeding or bathing his huge bronze dragon, Derek was usually in the company of his entire wing. 

Allison saw him from time to time – as the de facto junior weyrwoman, she took extra classes with Laura and the wingleaders, learning the finer points of leadership alongside her other draconic duties. 

“He’s not there often,” she admitted. “but he checks on me every now and then. He’s a bit brusque, but always means well.”

“Has he offered to take you home to visit?”

Allison sighed, looking away. “No. But I’m not sure I’m … well. I’m not ready to leave Lustreth, and even if I did, I’m not sure dad wants to see me.”

“I’m sure he misses you, Alli.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Allison admitted. “When Mother died, he just… worked. Worked and worked and worked, and when I asked him about it, or when she came up in conversation he would freeze up, ignore the question, and just keep working.”

“ _That_ sounds well adjusted,” Stiles observed, drily.

“He was coping the only way he knew how,” Allison said, softly. Stiles had been so young when his own mother passed, and so consumed with his own mind-numbing grief, that he hadn’t considered how his father had handled the loss. His father had always seemed too strong for grief, even grief over Claudia, to bring him down.

“Anyway,” Allison continued, softly. “Five months later he barged into my room in the middle of the night, crying and apologizing. We talked, and … well, I cried too, we were a mess. But we moved on together. It just took him time to reach a place where he could have a conversation with me.”

“I know you’re writing him…” 

“Of course.” Allison had been sending letters via Colby, her lovely young firelizard, and Stiles had sent a handful of missives along with them.

“And?”

She grimaced. “No answer yet. If he’s going to forgive me for leaving, it hasn’t happened yet.”

Stiles opened his arms and she took the offered hug with a heavy sigh.

After a long moment, Stiles’ face pressed to Allison’s dark hair, she spoke again. “Are you going to ask Derek to take you down to the hold?” 

The idea of leaving Syleth was like cold water poured down Stiles’ spine. He thought he might eventually be able to bear the distance, but not yet. “I thought I’d ask him to bring father here.

“I’m sure he’ll say yes,” Allison admitted, wistfully. “Derek’s really very kind. Don’t let his gruff exterior fool you.”

“If you say so,” Stiles laughed.

“You could always send a letter to Derek via Colby…”

In truth, Stiles _had_ considered using Colby, but the idea of a formal letter was unappealing. He wanted to see Derek again, and to have a conversation with him, but he was too shy to approach Derek in the Hall where people – including his tormentors – would see him and draw conclusions about his interest that, while basically correct, would give them ammunition for their bullying. After all, Rider Hale was a wingleader, a bronzerider, and supremely _gorgeous_. What little interest he’d taken in Stiles after the hatching – hand-delivering Stiles’ dropped satchel and offering what advice he could about life in the weyr – provided ample fodder for a burgeoning crush. 

He would get over it. Stiles was a master at unrequited affection, and knew the surest way to squash his emotions was to let Derek do it, his unwitting indifference starving the tendrils of affection with no one being the wiser. 

Though Stiles was perfectly aware that he – a scrawny greenrider of sixteen turns – had zero chance with a bronze wingleader and half-sibling to the weyrwoman herself, he wasn’t quite strong enough to turn away the opportunity to speak with him in earnest. 

To Allison he simply scoffed. “When we live a few hundred meters apart? Silly.”

“Mmm,” Allison agreed, gracing him with a thoughtful look. “I suppose so.”

“I just can’t seem to track him down somewhere we’d be able to speak privately.”

Allison nodded in sympathy, perfectly aware of what approaching Derek in the Great Hall would mean to the Beacon Weyr gossip tree.

For all that Stiles was an attractive new option for older blue and brownriders, Allison was officially Beacon Weyr’s most eligible bachelorette. She wasn’t quite the prize that Laura would be when Aconith rose again, but junior weyrwoman was a hard-hitting rank, and any bronze that flew her would instantly rise in station. When Aconith rose, bronzeriders would come from far away weyrs in the hopes of snaring the gold and her rider – even Allison’s obvious affection for Scott did nothing to deter her admirers. She’d learned, much as Stiles had, that wise riders were careful whom they spoke to in the weyr’s more public areas.

“The next time he sits in on my lessons with Laura, I’ll send him over to you,” Allison offered, kindly.

“I don’t deserve you,” Stiles told her, kissing her cheek.

“Yes, you do,” Allison told him, all smiles.

Much to Stiles’ surprise, bronzerider Hale simply approached him in the Great Hall two short days later, clad from toe to neck in his riding leathers, his flight goggles hanging around his neck. Stiles was highly conscious of the eyes of other riders honing in on them as Derek dropped onto the long stone bench and reached for an apple. Though their attention left Stiles feeling awkward and uncertain, Derek appeared to neither notice nor care about the sidelong glances.

“I’ve spoken with your father,” Hale said, skipping all formalities or greetings. He inspected the apple in his hands with a frown, then reached for a serving knife and sliced it in half.

“Good evening to you too, Rider Hale.” Stiles tucked a lock of his shaggy hair behind one ear, realizing abruptly that he desperately needed a haircut. He wondered what he must look like to Derek – young, scrawny, hair mussed after an afternoon moving timber and other fuel from the tithing carts to the weyr’s great storehouses. His brown woolen weyrling uniform stuck uncomfortably to his sweaty chest and was powdered in places with firestone dust. Derek, as usual, appeared artfully tousled and as handsome as any hero of song and story.

‘Stop,’ he told himself, sharply. ‘Your appearance is irrelevant. Just – just, be yourself.’

Syleth’s sleeping mind stirred in the back of his mind, sleep disturbed by Stiles’ sudden anxiety. He took a deep breath and soothed her from afar.

Derek watched all of this patiently, well used to the glassy-eyed pauses that meant a rider was conversing with their dragon. “Syleth wakes?” he asked quietly, as though there were a chance of waking her from where they sat.

“Not quite,” Stiles said. He couldn’t help but be pleased that Derek remembered his dragonet’s name. “She’s exhausted – Finstock had us doing laps and stretches this morning, and she’s been passed out since a candlemark past noon. She missed all the firestone stocking, lucky thing!”

“She’s growing,” Derek said, smiling a small, private smile. “They’re all like that when they’re young. A bit like a puppy … sleep, sleep, sleep, eat, play, sleep.”

“I can hardly keep up with her,” Stiles admitted, grinning back at the older man. “So – what did my father say?”

He winced internally at how childish he sounded. He’d prefer Derek see him as a peer or at _least_ a fellow rider, not an anxious teen.

“He was excited by the prospect,” Derek said, solemnly. 

“My next free afternoon is in six days’ time,” Stiles offered, hopefully.

“I’ll do what I can,” Derek said with a nod and a faint smile. Their gazes locked for a moment, Stiles’ startling all over again at the lovely green-gray of his eyes, at the way they crinkled in the corners with what might be laugh lines, despite the fact that Stiles rarely saw Derek smile. He imagined they were smiles you had to work for – sweeter for their scarcity.

The moment broke when Derek cleared his throat and dropped his eyes back to the apple he’d been slicing so industriously. Stiles followed his gaze downwards and winced as he spotted the telltale burrows of dark worm through pale fruitflesh. “This is terrible fare,” Derek muttered in disgust, reaching for another. He inspected that one for wormholes, then another, and another. 

“Tybor Hold had a difficult year,” Stiles said jokingly, “if all they can afford to tithe are the worm’s leftovers.”

“Their lord holder denies the onslaught of thread,” Derek growled, jamming his knife into the wood of the table. “But these are worse than the usual stuff they scrounge up. These are fit only for the runnerbeasts – not the weyrling table.” His eyes snapped up and settle don the nearest serving drudge. Stiles’ heart sank when he realized it was none other than Trisan, the very teen that saw to it Stiles’ serving platters were heaped with the worst end of every portion. “Boy!”

Trisan approached, eyes widening as he took in the scene – the mushy apples in Derek’s hand, the serving knife quivering vertically in the wooden table.

“I want an explanation – why is rotten fare like this being served to our weyrlings?” The barked question sounded more like an order or demand, and Trisan shrank away, stunned. 

“The autumn tithes have yet to come in, Rider. There are no fresher fruits to be had.”

“I know that to be a lie,” Derek growled. “Just this morning I had fruits and sweet, fresh juice in the weyrwoman’s chamber, clean and perfect.”

“With respect, sir, we could never offer the _weyrwoman_ wormy apples, her being with child and all – “

That was, apparently, the wrong thing to say. Derek’s next words were a snarl. “Oh? And so you foist them off on the hungriest members of the wings? Weyrlings _must_ be fed, boy. They work hard, they’re growing quickly, and their dragons amplify their hunger tremendously. Moldy apples… this is an affront to the men and women who will one day soon guard your worthless hide from threadscore and ash. Bring a fresh basket of fruit out here, _now_ , or I’ll feed you this rotten flesh and see how _you_ like it.” 

Trisan rushed away, but not before passing a short, hateful stare over Stiles.

“Idiots,” Derek growled, sweeping the halved fruit away and reaching for the cheese and bread. The portion nearest to Stiles was mostly heel and rind – thanks, no doubt, to Trisan – and so Derek stood, strolled to a nearby table of full-ranked riders, and returned with a platter of meats and cheeses fit for a king.

Stiles’ mouth instantly began to water, though he knew encouraging Derek’s interference would only increase Trisan’s rancor, he couldn’t help but spear a huge slice and fill his mouth with the hot, succulent bite of meat. He closed his eyes, moaning at the pungent juices and perfect flavor – it was a far cry from his usual overcooked portion. 

Derek watched him intently, bracing his elbows on the table. “I suppose you often end up with the bread heels, do you?

“Occasionally,” Stiles swallowed, sighed, and agreed. He sliced the next chunk of roast more carefully, alternating between that and the soft center-cut cheese.

“And cheese that’s all rind.”

“All cheese has a rind,” Stiles said, deliberately misunderstanding. His eyes flicked up to Derek’s face, then back down to his trencher.

Derek studied Stiles in silence for a long moment. “You’ve not filled out much, since your arrival at the weyr.”

Stiles felt his ears instantaneously go pink with embarrassment. “Wh – what?”

If Derek noticed his embarrassed flush, it did not sway his stare away. “Normally, the hunger of a hatchling means that new riders consume far more food than they had previously. Combined with the rigorous schedule Finstock has you on, you should be filling out – gaining strength, just as your dragonet does.”

“So I’m the runt of the proverbial litter,” Stiles muttered hotly, glaring down at his cup of warm ale. “It’s no concern of yours.”

“Wrong. I have a vested interest in your growth,” Derek said, an odd expression passing across his face. Before Stiles could puzzle out what that meant, he quickly clarified: “We all do. I Searched you. Syleth is of Aconith’s first clutch. We – want to see you strong. Strong weyrlings suggest strong clutches, and strong clutches solidify a weyrwoman’s reputation.”

Realizing that Derek’s only interest in him was for the sake of Laura’s reputation quickly squashed the warm glow Stiles had begun to feel towards the man. “Now you claim to have ’searched’ me?” Stiles asked with a snort. In truth, Lycanth passed him over publically at the Gathering! Derek hardly got to claim Stiles as one of his.

Derek, however, gave him another hard look. “Lycanth would have brought you here, had you not turned tail and fled the courtyard on gatherday.”

Stiles jaw dropped. “Wh—“

Trisan – still dedicated, apparently, to making Stiles’ life as difficult as possible – chose that inopportune moment to reappear not only with fresh apples, but a handful of Ista oranges and even a small sprig of grapes, Stiles thought he might have died and gone to heaven.

“Better,” Derek glowered. “you. What is your name?”

Trisan’s mouth open and shut twice before stuttering out an answer. “Trisan.”

Derek’s lips twisted into a frown. “Trisan. Well, Trisan. I don’t want to see you on serving duty again,” Derek said, coolly. “At least, not until you learn the difference between what is fit for a man and fit for a beast.”

“Rider Hale – “ Trisan began, horrified. 

“ _Every_ rider is a rider, regardless of their birth,” Derek said. “Be they born Prince or drudge, once they Impress they are a rider and should be treated as such. A dragon, in its wisdom, picks the partner who matches it perfectly. They do not choose the sort of boy who would take sullen pleasure in feeding a hungry man moldy apples.”

When Trisan’s glance snapped up to Stiles again it had melted from anger into desperation. Stiles almost felt sorry for him.

“See that you are reassigned to other duties,” Derek said, “And I may forget having this little conversation.”

Trisan ducked his head and fled to the table, utterly cowed by the intimidating combination of Derek’s dressing-down, rank, and eyebrows. Stiles stared after the other teen, wondering why any man would mourn being denied the right to wait hand and foot on hungry dragonriders.

He must have said that last bit out loud, because Derek sighed.

“You _are_ new,” he said absently, frowning after Trisan. “That one is a drudge by choice. I suspect Holds and weyrs alike will see more like him once Thread starts falling and the unprepared must abase themselves in the hope of shelter and food. In the weyr, though, they’re not uncommon. Our drudges are usually teens who, hoping to Impress a dragonrider and be selected as a candidate, come to the weyr to try their luck.”

Stiles had a brief flash of the first time he’d met Peter and the cajoling way he’d dangled candidacy in front of Stiles, as though it were a fat, juicy worm on a hook. “Does that ever happen?”

“Sometimes,” Derek admitted. “Sometimes they happen to be in the right place at the right time, just like you were.”

Stiles winced.

“Some are weyrbrats waiting their turn at candidacy, or failed candidates whose families would not have them back after their Searching. There are a great many of them here, doing the simple or repetitive work no rider has time for, and they keep life at the weyr running smoothly. And naturally, they all wish to work in front-facing roles, to interact with riders rather than be sequestered away unknown and unnoticed in a back room.”

“I knew he was envious,” Stiles admitted, surprised at the sudden wave of guilt he felt. He knew what it was like to desperately want a dragon of his own; in his jealousy at Allison’s searching. “And can you blame him? Syleth is perfection in dragonform,” he added, smiling wistfully.

Derek laughed a soft, gentle kind of laugh that Stiles had never heard from him before. The sound of it curled up in his heart, warm and memorable.

“At any rate, I was handling it,” he complained. “I was handling it _delicately_ \-- he would have given up. Now he’s going to hold me accountable for his public humiliation.”

“ _He_ is the only man responsible for that,” Derek growled. “If ‘handling it’ means skipping meals to avoid confrontation, then your strategy is unacceptable.”

Stiles glared sullenly at Derek over the candles flickering between them, but Derek stared right back, one eyebrow quirked as though daring Stiles to carry on denying his guess. The impasse lasted for a moment, broken only when Derek plucked the oranges from the basket and slid them across the table towards Stiles. “Eat,” he said, gruffly.

Stiles, for all that he was still feigning annoyance at the man, could hardly turn down fresh oranges.

As he punctured the sweet flesh with a thumbnail and began to peel it away, Derek surprised him by slicing a portion of meat first for Stiles and then himself, joining Stiles at his repast.

After a few minutes of silence, during which Stiles inhaled more fresh food than he’d had in the past two sevendays together, Derek stirred the conversation to life once again. “Lycanth would have Searched you,” he said, quietly.

Stiles froze, butter in one hand and bread in the other, mid-spread. “But… Lycanth sought Allison out in the crowd.”

Derek nodded. “He did. Finding a suitable goldrider was our necessary prerogative – but we would hardly look for a goldrider and exclude all others. Nine _other_ candidates came from Beacon, seven of whom Impressed.”

“And then me,” Stiles said weakly.

“And then you. I’m beginning to think you take pleasure in doing things the hard way,” Derek said – though his faint smile suggested he was merely teasing.

Stiles looked away, scratching at his chin. “I wanted so badly to be Searched – when you called Allison’s name I was heartbroken. I love her – she’s my dearest friend – but I couldn’t bear to stand and watch her live out _my_ dream.”

“To be honest,” Derek said, eyes fixed on the fresh, new apple he was deftly slicing with a knife, “I thought you were a coward. We get them sometimes – holders with potential who are afraid of the dragons. Sometimes we have those who would go, but whose parents deny them – or those whose parents want them to be taken to the weyr against their own wishes.”

“So you didn’t track me down,” Stiles finished, frustrated. It rankled to know how much trouble he could have spared himself if he’d been a better friend to Allison. His own jealousy had significantly complicated his path to Impression. 

“No,” Derek agreed. “Though Lycanth insisted you’d be a strong choice, if I did.”

Stiles flashed him a grin over the rim of his mug. “Lycanth has good taste.”

They shared another companionable silence, as Stiles reached for a leg of fowl, slicing it from the bone and deftly scraping some onto Derek’s plate. Derek grunted his thanks, words temporarily exhausted.

“I heard tell that Laura is expecting,” Stiles said, neutrally.

“She is,” Derek agreed. Stiles’ heart went warm and melty at the way Derek’s face lit up. “She’s the first Hale of our generation to have a child – it’s… well. It’s a gift in the face of imminent thread.”

Stiles thought about that – this child, like any children Stiles might sire – would grow up knowing nothing but the violence and fear of threadfall. No child born this turn would spend the long, hot summers running barefoot in the fields or plucking weeds from the walls to earn spending money without constantly looking over their shoulders to check for looming disaster. 

“Is your sister excited? And weyrleader Jordan?”

“She is,” Derek laughed. “Though I think your experience of family and mine may differ.”

“Surely family is family, holder or weyrborn…” 

“You and your father are close,” Derek observed, a question-but-not-a-question.

“We are,” Stiles agreed. “For many turns he was all I had.”

A shadow passed over Derek’s face, and Stiles remembered to whom he was speaking. “In the weyr, children are traditionally removed from their parents and suckled by a wetnurse,” Derek said, not looking up. “We grow up as children of the weyr. You _know_ of your parents, but they are not – they are not your only pillar of support. Riders face down thread, and often move between weyrs without warning to fill gaps in the ranks of other wings and to ensure fresh blood.”

"Like your sister Cora," Stiles guessed, recalling what he'd learned of Cora Hale.

"And my father," Derek shrugged.

"I thought - 

Stiles began, then caught himself with a horrified lurch.

"You thought he died alongside Talia," Derek guessed, looking away. It obviously took him a moment to gather himself, but after a breath or two he continued without a hitch in his voice. "He served two terms as weyrleader. When he lost my mother's flight he moved on and the new weyrleader assumed his role. Cora was Jon's child, our half-sibling." 

Stiles’ brows furrowed, trying to imagine a world in which parents were treated like distant aunties or uncles. “It's strange to think that you never lived with your mother and father...”

“She was very busy,” Derek said, almost defensively. “Running the weyr is more work than most sane people could handle, and mother did it well. When we were older she would invite us up for dinner, or for presents on our namedays. We were closer than most, and when Laura and I Impressed dragons of our own she often supplemented our lessons with those of her own devising.”

He trailed away, shaking his head at himself. “I… don’t often speak of her. You must excuse my rambling.”

“Don’t apologize,” Stiles said, swallowing tightly. “My mother was a harper,” Stiles said awkwardly, answering the personal topic with more of the same. “She was Searched as an apprentice, but went back to Harper Hall to finish her training when she failed to Impress. She married my father when she was stationed at Beacon Hold.”

“A harper in the family,” Derek said, suitably impressed. “You never thought about an apprenticeship?”

“I did,” Stiles admitted. “But I hated the idea of leaving my father alone.” He’d thought hard about it, actually. Stiles had a good memory and a head for the mathematic mechanics that went into the construction of proper songs or ballads; however, most apprentices were shipped off to the crafthalls at a young age, and Stiles – raw with the loss of his mother – couldn’t bear the thought of being separated from his father too. 

Then he flushed, realizing how those words might be misconstrued. “Not that I – not that I regret becoming a dragonrider, I just –“

“It’s just important for you to see your father,” Derek said, nodding to himself as though he had made a decision. “I will bring him to you in six days’ time.”

Stiles felt his heart swell. “That’s… that’s very kind of you.”

“I made a promise,” Derek said, standing and dusting crumbs from his dark leathers. “And I keep my promises.”

Stiles watched him go, heart as full as his belly.

 _Shard_ it – Rider Hale was going to be harder to forget than he’d thought.

•○•

Not only was Derek willing to ferry Guardcaptain John to the weyr, he did so every two weeks like clockwork, scheduling his pick up and drop off times around the relentless training schedule maintained by the Alpha Wing.

The first time John met Syleth – well, met Syleth when both parties were awake and aware – he reached a hand out as though Syleth were a hound interested in a sniff. “She’s not going to bite you!” Stiles laughed, and Syleth – egged on by his amusement – snapped at John’s fingers, just to prove a point. John jerked his hand back instinctively, then groaned. “By Faranth, you pair are too alike – I can hardly keep up with one of you!” 

Still, he patted Syleth’s side gently, nimble fingers quickly learning where she best liked to be scratched. The days of the tenth month were growing longer, and though the mornings and evenings were chilly, the afternoons were still warm enough to sit outside and sprawl pleasantly in the sun.

When Stiles watched his father scratch at Syleth’s eyeridges his heart felt tied up in knots, thick and unwieldy in his chest. 

“How are you adjusting?” his father asked. “Is the weyr all you expected it would be?”

“It’s… different,” Stiles said, slowly.

“Different-good, or different-bad?”

“Just different. I never put much thought to how dragonriders lived when they weren’t soaring about, saving the planet.”

John grinned at him. “Much as I never guessed how much of a guardcaptain’s time was spent recordkeeping…”

Stiles grinned back. “We can’t wait to start flying,” he admitted, reaching out to stroke Syleth’s shoulder. “Greens mature the earliest, since we’re smaller at full growth than the other dragons. Finstock reckons Syleth will be gliding by six months.” 

“So soon?!” John asked, startled. 

_‘I am very strong!’_ Syleth pointed out to Stiles.

Stiles relayed the message with a laugh. “She reminds you that she’s very strong.” 

“I can see that is true,” John conceded, grinning. “Please excuse my doubts!”

“I thought the same thing,” Stiles admitted, excitedly. “In fact, Finstock had us move boxes of records for Lydia. You’d love Lydia – she’s brilliant. They say she apprenticed with Harper Hall until she decided she preferred the mathematics of music to the singing of songs, quit her training and declared herself a _Scientist._ ”

John laughed. “You certainly sound like a fan.”

“I don’t know her – not really. We spoke briefly then – and I might volunteer to assist in her archival hunts. When Finstock had us hauling boxes, I found scrolls of parchment detailing the average maturation age of greens – they even denoted first glide, first flight, and first mating run. If Syleth is in the right spot on the bell curve, we could be pair-flying as early as next turn.”

John ran a hand over his face. “That’s all well and good, but go easy on the whole _mating flight_ thing. I’m still getting used to the idea of dragons, the idea of dragons in heat is an entirely different kettle of fish.”

 _‘Does he not like the idea of mating?’_ Syleth asked, curiously.

‘No, no – it’s not the mating, it’s the idea of _you and I_ mating.’

_‘Why?’_

Stiles groaned, continuing the conversation aloud for his father’s benefit. “Syleth wants to know why you dislike mating,” he told his father, laughing at the horrified expression on John’s face.

“I like a good old mating as much as the next guy!” John protested, giving Stiles a chance to groan in disgust. 

“Dad!”

“I just … well, the Weyrfolk do things differently. I want to make sure you’re cared for, is all.”

 _‘I will care for you,’_ Syleth declared, making Stiles laugh again. 

‘That’s not what he means, love.’

_‘But…’_

‘I’ll tell you when you’re older!’

Syleth grumbled and rolled over, placing her back to Stiles and her belly conveniently towards the guardcaptain. _‘John is my new favorite,’_ she declared.

“She says you’re her new favorite,” Stiles said, grinning at the delight on his father’s face.

“You’re mine as well,” John promised her – and Stiles could only sprawl backwards into the grass, laughing at his own defeat.

•○•

Finstock set a great many tasks set before the weyrlings, all designed to build familiarity with the weyr and life therein. Humans had lived in the caves of Beacon Weyr for untold generations, and there were mazes of old storage rooms tucked away in the recesses of the caverns. As the dragonets grew older, Finstock began to test the boundaries of their bonds, directing the weyrlings to work further and further away from the dragonets. At first the distance ached in the way an overused muscle might ache, but as time went on both dragonet and human rider adjusted.

The thirty-three weyrlings were often divided into groups – sometimes of ten, sometimes eight, sometimes pairs – in which they tackled the assigned tasks. In the eleventh month, when the leathermaster shifted his focus from tanning new hide to mending the old, they spent two and a half weeks inspecting, cleaning, and reassembling old dragontack. 

Stiles enjoyed the manual work, even if it meant sitting outside in the cold to take advantage of the better light. This high in the mountains, the last of autumn’s warmth had faded fast, and snow flurries soon became a weekly occurrence. The woolen uniform Stiles had cursed in the summer months went from being oppressively hot to perfectly comfortable. What’s more, it came with fur-lined leather mittens, with covers over the fingers that could be pulled back and buttoned in place, allowing for hands to stay warm even when doing delicate work. Even better, he and Allison had been assigned to the same work group, so they were able to chat as they squinted at the old leather pieces for spots of mildew or rusted rivets. If a piece was salvageable, it was carefully oiled and then went on to the Master or his journeymen for any necessary repairs. If not, they busied themselves with prying out grommets and fasteners to be collected and reused.

“When I have my own tack,” Alison observed critically, holding a frayed girth strap up to the light, “it will _never_ end up in such a state. Imagine being so careless with so many fine pieces…”

Stiles turned the stirrup he was oiling over in his hands. “I suppose they had little need of fighting gear when Thread ceased at the last interval,” he said, thoughtfully.

“Are you suggesting these harnesses are two hundred turns old?” Allison laughed.

Stiles frowned. It did seem unlikely. “Maybe it’s just a matter of draconic population,” he speculated. “Beacon Weyr _is_ the smallest on Pern. Maybe they ran out of dragons to wear the tack.”

“That might be true,” Allison conceded, thoughtfully. “I overheard Laura and Derek speaking, recently. They’re concerned that Aconith may not rise again.”

“What?” Stiles asked, shocked. 

“Well, you know how long it took her to rise the first time. No one knows why,” Allison said, thoughtfully. “If she doesn’t rise soon, the ranks will be too thin to properly protect our holds. They were talking about bringing in another queen – perhaps one due to fly within the next few months.”

Stiles was silent for a long few moments. “How do you feel about that?”

“About a new queen?” Allison asked, not meeting his eyes. “Well. Technically, I only become junior weyrwoman when Lustreth rises. If a new queen is brought in and rises before Lustreth…. Well. I don’t have much say in the matter.”

“That’s unfair,” Stiles said, scowling. “No woman on Pern is more fit to serve as junior weyrwoman. You’ve been groomed for power from the cradle, they’d be crazy to—”

“I’m not some fairytale princess,” Allison laughed. “But… I can admit I was looking forward to the position. It’s not the title that appeals, it’s the power to do good, to… well, to make sure that Beacon Hold is fairly protected.”

By Faranth, Allison was so sharding _good_. “Laura would be an idiot to pass you over,” Stiles growled, scowling. He hurled the buckle he’d been cutting free into the metal tin, where it clanked and clattered amidst the other reclaimed pieces.

“We’ll see,” Allison said, simply.

•○•

In the end, they needn’t have worried. Golden Aconith rose to mate on the seventh day of the twelfth month, and not a soul in the weyr could have missed the great event.

Stiles had seen – and felt – the mating passion of a green dragon several times since his arrival in the weyr. His careful studies of all things Syleth-related told him that greens could rise as frequently as four times a year, and – much in the way the shared anticipation and emotions of the dragons during a hatching bled over to their human counterparts – the arousal of a dragon in heat was tangible, flooding out and affecting those nearby. The greenriders were set alight with what was, apparently, all-consuming passion – and were expected to choose a partner, either the rider of the dragon with whom their own had paired, or a stand-in of their choice. Stiles’ powers of observation suggested that the heat cycle of dragons was intensely enjoyable for their riders … but having only seen the experience from afar, he couldn’t help but feel fascinated and intimidated by turns.

He didn’t relish the idea of losing control of his senses to his desire – or of bedding a stranger. And yet…well. All parties involved seemed to enjoy it, and he was a healthy young man. He just needed more information.

Thus far, the mating flights of others had only resulted in extra-long private sessions in the the bathing pools… the only part of the weyrling wing with any real privacy. Stiles found that the distracting secondhand sexual tension would dissipate if he took himself in hand, letting him get on with business as usual. From what he could tell, paired riders – either those with formal weyrmates or casual partners – used the heightened arousal of a greenflight to their own advantage.

Those greenflights, however, did nothing to prepare Stiles for the rising of a gold. It happened in the early morning, just after the first heavy snowfall of winter. Though Beacon Weyr was a veritable warren of stone walkways and interconnected caves, the newer areas of the weyr were not always connected via tunnel with the older, original parts. Finstock had the weyrlings shoveling snow, clearing pathways between doors so that those members of the weyr who didn’t have the privilege of flying from door to door on dragonback could still go about their daily work. 

“I don’t understand why we’re shoveling when the dragons could just burn the stuff away,” Stiles grumped, flexing his sore hands as he leaned on his shovel. The weyr’s herdbeasts had been snowed into their stables the night before, and had to be dug out before any of the full grown dragons could feed that day. Stiles could hear them inside the closed metal door to the stables, stamping and snorting their displeasure at the delay in their morning feeding schedule.

Scott, Stiles and Allison were part of the team tasked with digging out the doorway, giving the animals access to the outdoor pen that spanned from the stable entrance to the lake. 

It wasn’t a particularly pleasant task – particularly when their shovels found hidden caches of frozen herdbeast dung.

“Ah, but that’s a waste of perfectly good firestone,” Scott observed, grinning at Stiles over the tricolor scarf he’d wrapped enthusiastically about his entire head.

“And digging _builds character_ ,” Stiles said, pitching his voice for his best Finstock impersonation. 

“Father used to salt or sand the cobbles at Beacon,” Allison offered, hurling a heaping shovelful over one shoulder. Colby was delighted by the flying snow and ice, diving after each shovelful to nip and snap at the chunky flakes. “It might save us some effort.”

That gave Scott pause. “And it worked?”

“Of course. The salt also deters the growth of greenery; he thought it a good way to deter the weeds of spring.”

“Smart,” Scott agreed. “There _is_ a rocksalt mine some four miles southwest. Perhaps Laura would take it under advisement.” He flashed Allison an affectionate smile – and she returned it, expression soft.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Come on, Scotty. Grab that handle and let’s give this door a heave-ho.”

Scott broke away from his admiration agreeably, wrapping his hands around the upper part of the metal door’s handle, while Stiles took the lower. Together they hauled the heavy metal portal open, scraping the icy ground white and raw. The heavy scent of herdbeast – sweat and dirt and droppings – wafted out in a hot, earthy blast.

“Eugh,” Stiles groaned, leaning on the metal door and fanning the stench away from his face. “

It was then that the goldflight interrupted their day.

The weyrwoman’s weyr was high enough on the caldera wall that the morning sun had already crested the rim of the caldera and bathed it with early morning light. As Aconith woke she thrashed uprightm glittering in the sun and gasping out a desperate, furious roar. The force of her lust was sharp and hard and nearly doubled Stiles over with the visceral, animalistic _need_ of a mating heat. 

He was not the only one to feel it – while he braced himself on his shovel handle and staggered to his feet, Scott and Allison were supporting one another, their mouths inches apart, bodies unconsciously bending towards one another.

Stiles was the first to realize what was happening. “Aconith,” he said, voice strangled. “She’s rising!”

Dropping his shovel, Stiles watched as Laura’s gold leapt to the sky and circled the crater. Her huge shadow flickered screaming with displeasure and fury. 

Laura was nowhere to be seen – unsurprising. Heavily pregnant as she was, she’d remained in her quarters much of the last month, rather than risk traveling on the icy stairs. Stiles tried to remember how this went – the female dragon would rouse hungry, would kill, eat, and then fly fast and far as the hopeful browns and bronzes of the weyr chased them down.

 _‘She flies,’_ Syleth agreed, urgency in her voice. _‘she hungers!’_

Of _course_ \-- a gold needed to feed in order to fly her farthest – no food meant a short flight and a smaller clutch of eggs. Laura – and the weyr at large – needed as large a clutch as possible to fill out the currently-thin ranks and guard against thread. “Open the doors!” He shouted, whirling towards where Scott and Allison had been standing only moments before.

They were gone.

Aconith screamed again, her shadow passing over his face. Stiles suddenly realized that he was the only hot-blooded creature standing in the herdbeast pen. He scrambled backwards, turning towards the edge of the yard. The herdbeasts were unlikely to leave the warmth of their stables, and the empty feeding pen frustrated Aconith’s attempts to prepare for her flight. Not knowing what else to do, Stiles dashed to the cavern that sheltered the feeding herd from the winter chill. 

His eyes traced across the snow, catching on the staggering footprints that trailed back towards the warm recesses of the runnerbeast stable. It didn’t take a genius to figure out where the pair had vanished off to, or what they were doing. While Stiles felt the second-hand arousal of the rising gold keenly, there was no one he trusted to quench his need... so there was no point in wasting time thinking about partners.

Allison, though, had Scott – and from the looks of it, the pair of them had found nest of hay somewhere to ride out the flight together. He felt a twinge of concern at the thought – as far as Stiles knew, their flirtation was only flirtation. He wasn’t entirely sure Allison had ever taken a man to her bed before, and while Scott wasn’t a bad choice, things were certainly moving quickly. 

‘Focus,’ he told himself, shaking his head clear. “Hello?!” he shouted, voice bouncing around the stone chamber. “Allison? Scott?”

Where were the sharding shepherds, the herders and their apprentices? Surely someone should be here, feeding the herd or tending to their needs! 

When no one responded, Stiles forced himself to take a deep breath. The waves of Aconith’s telepathic emotion washed over him, making rational thought difficult – but he was a man, and she was not his dragon. He could rise above it, at least for the moment, and do what needed to be done.

He looked up at the stables, eyes zeroing in on the stone gate that kept the creatures inside. ‘Let’s serve up some dinner,’ he told Syleth, whose thoughts in response were all flashing hope and bright colorful love.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Stiles jerked in surprise at the interruption. A heavy hand fell on his shoulder, jerking him around roughly. When he regained his balance and his focus – no easy feat with draconic anger and vexation pouring through him – he found himself staring into the dark, stupid face of Trisan.

Stiles groaned. “Oh, come on,” he muttered, jerking backwards. “Not you.”

“Yeah,” Trisan growled, clinging tenaciously to Stiles’ tunic. “ _Me_. Surprised to see me here? You shouldn’t be – your sharding brozeriding babysitter had me reassigned to stable duties because you’re a stinking crybaby.”

Staring at the other boy, Stiles wondered absently if a goldflight increase aggression. Lust, yes – everyone knew that dragon’s lust was so strong it was practically contagious – but he’d never heard of them sparking anger in a man. Trisan was either extremely susceptible to draconic suggestion, or too dragondeaf to feel what was overpowering to every rider in the Weyr.

Then again, Trisan had never touched him before, preferring instead both passive aggressive barbs and simply depriving Stiles of the choicest portions of any meal. Perhaps it was in response to the flight…

Stiles attempted to twist away and earned himself only a hard shake in response. Not knowing what else to do, he stood up to his full height and faced Trisan straight on.

They’d never stood eye to eye before – Stiles had always been seated on the long benches, carefully ignoring Trisan’s snide comments and unpleasant servings. Now that they stood opposite one another, Stiles realized that the other boy had a good two fingers of height on him. Trisan was also strong – his shoulders were broad from years of hoisting trays and turning herdbeast on spits. He had a dumb sort of face, plain and lined with frustration. He was older than Stiles, too. Probably old enough that he’d only have one or two more chances to Impress before he was too old to stand on the sands…

Trisan shook him again and Stiles realized abruptly that he might be in actual danger.

“Look, man, right now is really not the time for this,” Stiles said, raising his hands. The tension of Aconith’s want was buzzing under his skin, and Syleth’s agitation was rapidly mounting in the back of his mind. “Aconith is rising – if we don’t let those herdbeast out, Rider Hale’s gonna have a whole lot more to say to both of us.”

He shifted sideways, locking his eyes on the gate to the stable’s main pen. _‘They are stupid creatures. Can you scare them?’_ asked Syleth, her faith in Stiles flooding him with confidence.

 _‘I can try,’_ he thought back, reaching up to disentangle Trisan’s hands from his clothing.

“Are you threatening me?” Trisan snarled, stupidly. 

Stiles snapped. “Oh, please. I’ve never _once_ been a threat to you. It’s not my problem if you’re too dumb to notice that letting these herdbeast out will make you a hero. You could _save the goldflight_ ,” he noted, wiggling his fingers enthusiastically, “but instead you’re standing here harassing a rider.”

“You’re no rider,” Trisan muttered venemously. “You’re just a jumped up little holdbrat – how many real riders did you have to blow to earn a place in that cavern? Peter Hale, obviously. And his nephew.” 

Stiles rolled his eyes. “I don’t have time for this,” he snapped, sidestepping the drudge and moving towards the gate. 

Trisan moved with him, shoving him hard. “Jump off, holdboy. I’m responsible for the paddocks, you’re not gonna throw me under the wagon-wheel for shits and giggles. Nobody touches that gate but _me_.”

For a moment Stiles could only stare at Trisan. The energy of the flight was humming inside his body, leaving him half hard and extremely distracted - even before the anxious lashing of Syleth’s thoughts in the back of his head. He shook his head in disbelief. “Come on, man. A watchwher could feel the force of it,” he said, disbelieving. 

Then, the full implication of that struck him. 

No wonder Trisan had been passed over at the hatching – no wonder he’d had to make his own way to the weyr rather than be Searched as a candidate. Sure, some people were draconically sensitive, open to the connection and predisposed to the bond of Impression… but Trisan was clearly not one of them. 

A flight was an overwhelming moment in the life of any sensitive person… but the teen standing in front of Stiles felt nothing at all. He desperately desired a dragon and would never, ever have one.

“Oh shards,” he realized aloud, staring at Trisan with sudden understanding. “You’re _dragondeaf_.”

Trisan’s face crumpled, then hardened into an expression of rage. Really, Stiles shouldn't have been so shocked when he struck him across the face with his heavy ham-hock of a fist – but the blow did surprise him, and sent him stumbling backwards. He would never, apparently, learn to keep his thoughts to himself.

 _‘Stiles!’_ Syleth was frantic as Trisan’s fist connected, panicking at the flash of pain that spread instantly through their bond. Stiles could see snatches of her sight against the back of his eyelids when he blinked – she’d cleared the weyrling quarters and was now out in the yard, throwing herself towards her rider. She was so small and the weyr’s central crater so wide that her progress was agonizingly slow, and her frustration was spiraling upwards.

That, more than anything, had Stiles thinking gentle thoughts at her – he couldn’t have her growing sluggish or sick in the cold weather. And Faranth only knew what Trisan would do to her – he was completely off his rocker. ‘Stay where you are,’ he thought desperately. ‘Stay away, Syleth!’

 _‘No!’_ Syleth cried, panic lacing her mental voice. Trisan came in for another strike, but this one merely clipped his temple. Stiles’ mind was too scattered to send any more cognizant thought in her direction; he backed up clutching the side of his head and willing her to stay calm. The last thing he needed was Syleth panicking and hurting herself over a worthless lout like Trisan.

Besides, Stiles could take care of himself.

The punch left his jaw aching, but it also left him free of Trisan’s grapple. Stiles quickly took two steps back to create space between them and dropped his left hand, bending his knees and bracing himself for another onslaught, just the way his father had taught him. He was slimmer and quicker than the other teen, which he could definitely work with.

The next time Trisan advanced, Stiles went on the offensive and drove his shoulder into Trisan’s chest. The hit was low and strong, and knocked the broader boy against the stone gate to the herdbeast pen. It rattled on its hinges when Stiles kneed Trisan in the balls and took advantage of that momentary distraction to fumble the latch open.

The gate swung inwards, sending both of them tumbling into the mire of sawdust and dirty hay scattered across the barn’s floor. Trisan was about as good at mucking out stables as he was at serving tables – the thin layer of sweet smelling straw quickly gave way to mucky, packed filth. Stiles groaned at the gooey feeling of it seeping between his fingers, wiped his hand on Trisan’s tunic, and scrambled up and off his dazed opponent. As much as he’d like to kick the sod when he was down, the gold dragon’s need was burning through his brain – she was hungry, and the wild-eyed herdbests at the far corner of their cavern-pen were the only solution. 

Unsurprisingly, they were less worried about the brawling boys in their pen than the hungry, screaming dragons outside. 

Scanning the scene, Stiles spotted one wall adorned with the tools of the stableherds -- heavy iron hooks, thick whips, and various metal implements whose uses he couldn’t begin to guess. He ran on unsteady feet and snatched up one of the lashes, turning and charging directly at the pack of terrified herdbeasts. He snapped the lash, shouted, flung his hands in the air like a man possessed, and finally -- _finally_ \-- the beasts began to move. 

Whether it was his hoarse cries or the deeply engrained fear of a stablehand’s whip, the herd stuttered into motion and was soon pouring out around him, bumping and jostling him in their mad stampede towards the frigid yard and waiting dragonclaws. 

It was only after they began stampeding through the gate that Stiles thought of Trisan, who he’d left prone at the entrance. When he whirled around, poised to drag the man out of the way, Trisan was nowhere to be seen.

 _‘She feeds,’_ Syleth bugled, triumphantly. She was still running towards Stiles as fast as her tiny legs could carry her, occasionally leaping into the air and thrusting her wings outwards to lengthen her jumps. Stiles’ heart tightened with pride as he realized that she was instinctively _gliding_ \-- one step closer to flight and adulthood.

By the time Stiles limped to the door – one of the heavy hooves had clipped his toes – Aconith had felled her first herdbeast and was alternating between sucking greedily at the throat and twisting to hiss and scream her defiance in the direction of the weyrwoman’s ledge. When he looked up he could see Laura’s faint figure at the edge of their balcony, icy wind whipping her long white shift across the bulge of her pregnant belly. Bronze and brown dragons ranged through the bowl of the weyr, snapping and jostling for a place closest to the feeding queen. Scott’s bronze Kaelith was amongst them, puffed up and snapping at his neighbors, completely overcome by lust.

No wonder Scott and Allison had disappeared – if Stiles felt that lust this strongly when his own dragon was completely uninvolved, Scott must be totally overwhelmed.

Stiles had just turned towards the infirmary when an all-too-familiar voice broke into his thoughts and a hand came to Stiles’ wrist. Stiles’ entire body tuned itself to the origin point of that single word; he felt like he might vibrate out of his skin at the heat of the touch.

“Derek?” he asked, dumbly. Was this some kind of dragonheat-induced hallucination? His head was aching from Trisan’s blows, but Derek’s proximity somehow pushed those aches and pains to the back of his mind.

“You let the herdbeasts out,” Derek realize aloud, his voice grating and low. He took a step further, into Stiles personal space, and Stiles felt his head tip up slightly, his entire body curved in needy invitation.

“Of course…. A gold must eat to rise,” Stiles said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. Shards, but Derek’s mouth was gorgeous – his lips plush and reddened by the freezing wind, his pupils blown wide with the same influx of need/desire/want that coursed through Stiles’ veins. Derek was, evidently, equally incapable of shrugging off the touch of another person. He tugged Stiles closer by the wrist, forging a firm connection of perfect, hot heat that sent an answering shudder through Stiles’ body.

Derek was going to kiss him. Derek was going to kiss him, was going to press him up against the stone doorway of the stables, was going to rock into the cradle of his hips and slide his hands up under the heavy wool of Stiles’ jerkin -- the sudden overwhelming urge for _all of that, yes, everything_ left Stiles panting with need, rolling onto his tiptoes until their mouths were centimeters apart. Derek’s other hand came up to his cheek, his thumb moving against the tender pink of the developing bruise, and then –

“No,” Derek grunted, voice gravelly and harsh. Before Stiles knew what was happening, Derek dropped his wrist and pulled away, his expression tensed into a wounded glare. “I have to — go. Don’t –” he broke off, eyes raking over Stiles’ body. “Just, don’t.”

Then, as quickly as he’d appeared, Derek was crunching through the snow, running towards where Lycanth crouched, his wings mantled and eyes whirling red with irritation. Derek and his dragon moved fluently, leaping upwards while the lurking, heat-dazed bronzes snapping at his tail as he climbed. They disappeared before Derek had cleared the walls of the crater, vanishing into cold _between_.

Aconith screamed again, face and neck splattered with the blood of her kills, and Stiles wondered – for the second time since she rose – if he was safe standing so close to a thrashing gold. She was barely a dragonlength away, mantled over the carcass of a kill so hot and fresh that its blood steamed in the winter air. He was distantly aware of the remainder of the herd making its way around the far edge of the pen, their terrified braying echoing beneath the interested hums and crunching snow surrounding the queen and her suitors. 

Before Stiles could step away, Aconith tipped her head up and bugled triumphantly, then swept her wings in a tremendous downbeat. She launched skyward so quickly that Stiles staggered backwards, landing in the frigid snow. He lay there stunned as the gold diminished into the distance, her bronze and brown entourage whirling and blurring around her body. He could no longer make out Scott’s Geneth as they spiraled upwards, soaring over the crater wall and out sight.

The mating flight had begun.

Stiles shoved the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to ground himself. Despite the terrifying turn of events, he was hard enough to pound nails, his erection apparently undeterred by danger.

‘Good to know,’ he thought darkly. The image of Derek hovered in his mind’s eye, the way the bronzerider’s eyes had fallen to his mouth, the hot feel of his hand locked around Stiles’ wrist…

The shared arousal began to diminish as the flight stretched away and the draconic influence waned. The further and higher Aconith flew, the longer the draconic coupling would last, and the larger the clutch would be – all good things.

If only Derek had stayed.

Stiles was feeling too grumpy and sore to worry about Scott and Allison in the runnerbeast stables. They’d be happy enough to go uninterrupted. Besides, his trodden foot ached more and more with each step until shooting stabs of pain were radiating up his left leg, and his face felt hot and flush with burgeoning bruises from Trisan’s fist. 

It was only the throbbing feel of Syleth’s panic that kept him moving; he honed in on her like a beacon in the darkness. They met just beyond the pasture, her eyes flashing with panic and her strong, growing wings flapping and lashing anxiously back and forth. Stiles dropped to his knees in the snow and threw his arms around her neck, letting out a shaky, wheezing breath.

“Syleth…” he whispered, throat constricted as her relief at seeing him whole washed over his mind. She’d been terrified for him, and the strength of her fear was exhausting .

 _‘No one touches you,’_ the dragonet told him, bristling with fury even as she pressed her head against him in a childish bid for comfort.

‘I’m alright,’ he promised. ‘It’s okay.’

One day this tiny dragonet would grow into her awkwardly long wings and rise over the walls of the weyr, would blood a beast and rise to mate. Then she and Stiles would fly like that, minds fully melded, a perfect tandem of body and desire. Perhaps they wouldn’t soar as far or as fast as a gold, but Syleth would rise in the throes of mating passion and he would be swept along like a leaf in a rushing torrent.

He closed his eyes, wondering. Would Derek say no, then?

 _‘You fed the queen,’_ Syleth observed, nuzzling into the crook of his neck with a warm snout, her hot breath blustering across his neck and scalp. She truly _had_ grown – her head was even with Stiles’ chin, now. How had he failed to notice a thing like that?

“I did,” he agreed, pressing his mouth to the side of her head. 

_‘My rider,’_ Syleth emphasized, proud. _‘My perfect, brave rider.’_

“Nobody’s riding anyone just yet,” Stiles said, laughing at her ineffable pride in him. When he put the back of his hand against his face, he realized he was crying – the emotional whiplash of the day had truly taken its toll. After a moment of indulgent closeness, Stiles straightened up and batted a bit of snow off Syleth's snout. “Come on, little one. Let’s get my toes looked at.”

Syleth puffed up in affront, chest bulging and tail lashing. _‘He hurt your toes?’_

“A _herdbeast_ trampled them,” Stiles corrected. It was hard to stay angry with Trisan, knowing what he knew now. Stiles had waltzed into the weyr and, without trying, acquired everything the drudge had ever wanted. His subsequent jealousy had resulted in petty bullying, and Stiles' allies had him thrown out of the warm, desirable inner halls. Then, pouring salt into an open wound, Stiles had barged into the stables demanding that he abandon his duties and chase the herdbeasts into the snow. 

Of course he’d resisted. Of course—

“YOU!”

Something massive and fast-moving slammed into Stiles’ back, driving him into the rough ground for the second time that day. Before he could stagger back to his feet, a leather boot connected with his ribcage and the air left his lungs in an agonizing whoosh. Stiles’ hands scrambled through the packed snow, looking for purchase , sharp pain lancing through his head as his skull connected with rock.

 _‘No!’_ Syleth wailed, her fury lancing through his brain. Stiles knew she was lashing and roaring – her mental anguish was more than enough to have him seeing spots. _‘Get off him! He’s **mine**!’_

“Get away,” he choked at Trisan, frantically trying to deflect the harsh blows.

“You – little – bastard!”

Stiles choked and groaned, curling in on himself and then rolling over to his hands and knees. The world around him swam in and out of focus, then sank into blackness.

The last thing he was aware of was a visceral, agonized scream.

•○•


	2. Chapter 2

•○•

The next few candlemarks passed in strange flashes of confusion, hurt, and bleary-eyed conversation. Stiles would later remember only brief moments suspended in a haze of pain. There was weyrlingmaster Finstock shouting and snapping and lifting him from the snow, Peter Hale grimacing as he hauled something bloody and ragged over one shoulder. Muddy blood pooling against slush. The flash of wings as Aconith’s unsuccessful suitors fluttered back over the walls of the caldera, wheeling and turning above.

 _‘You hurt,’_ Syleth’s voice, fractured and panicked. _‘You hurt everywhere!_

Then he was being stripped, wrapped in warm blankets, seated on a feather-stuffed mattress that felt heavenly against his aching body. He wanted to tilt sideways and give into sleep, but Melissa was there shining something into his eyes and asking him questions. He answered some, struggled to piece others together, and then fell asleep despite her urgent demands to the contrary.

•○•

Finstock appeared that first evening, ostensibly to check on his injured weyrling… but his visit consisted mostly of insults and complaints that Stiles had left his duties incomplete. Stiles was beginning to wonder how much of his manic personality was an act – he was sure he remembered Finstock settling him gently on the edge of his bed, but… maybe that was the head trauma.

Allison and Scott were the next visitors – they burst through the door as a pair, Allison going wide-eyed as she rushed to Stiles’ bedside. He wasn’t sure what his face looked like, but it _couldn’t_ be good. Allison’s approach stirred Syleth’s protective instincts and she reared back from her post beside the bed, golden eyes whirling with surprise and worry.

“Stiles!” Allison wrapped her arms around his neck, while Stiles groped for Syleth, struggling to soothe both girl and dragonet at the same time. Said girl squeezed him tightly enough to sting, but immediately relaxed her embrace when his breath went hissing painfully through his teeth. The dragonet simply nuzzled him uncertainly, seeking reassurance.

“Hey Allison,” Stiles said tiredly, trying to muster a smile for her. He glanced over her shoulder at Scott, who stood with his hands clasped before him, looking for all the world like a man standing vigil at a wake.

“I guess you two enjoyed your afternoon, huh?” Stiles asked drily, eying a purple mark just above the edge of Allison’s woolen collar. She flushed, biting at one thumbnail as her eyes skittered over to Scott, then away again. It wasn’t the confident sort of look Stiles was used to seeing on her, particularly after getting something she wanted.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Scott feigned ignorance with firm determination.

Allison glanced back at Stiles desperately – it didn’t take a genius to realize she wanted him to drop the subject. It was just as well – If Allison and Scott were going to have some kind of domestic dispute over their stable-yard tryst they could do it somewhere other than his sickbed. His head hurt, and his ribs hurt, and his toes hurt.

Shard it, everything hurt.

“At least you escaped while the getting was good,” he said, smiling wanly at them. “All I got for my trouble is a trodden set of toes and a bloody nose.”

The change of topic was evidently just what the healer ordered. Scott gave Stiles an incredulous look. “I heard the man who attacked you was a stableboy…. Is that true? Did you get a good look at him?”

Stiles grimaced, and nodded. “It was Trisan.”

Scott blinked in confusion. “Who?”

Allison just frowned – because of course, of _course_ she knew the names of all the serving drudges. No person was undeserving of Allison Argent’s attention, it seemed. “I thought he worked in the kitchen.” 

“He did – but Derek transferred him to stable duty, and he blames me for it. That’s all,” Stiles tried to shrug, but the stiffness in his torso and neck made it an abortive effort. “He picked a fight over a stupid grudge at the worst possible moment, that’s all.” 

“Well, talk about last laughs – you’re the hero of the day. Everyone is saying your quick thinking kept the flight from being derailed. I overheard a couple wingseconds saying you’re the sharpest greenrider in the weyr.”

“If I was really that sharp, I’d have kept my feet out of the way,” Stiles muttered, though he was secretly pleased at the prospect of praise. If saving a goldflight didn’t win over the stubborn weyrborn residents who still viewed him as a 'jumped up holder boy', nothing would.

 _‘Weyrwoman Laura will come to thank you herself,’_ Syleth informed him, pleased. _‘Though…Aconith tells me it will likely be on the morrow, as she is exhausted.’_

 _‘I bet,’_ Stiles agreed. During a flight, the goldriders had to harness their dragon’s lust and rage – the dragons wished only to gorge, but a heavy belly meant a shorter flight. The mental exertion of controlling an inflamed gold and falling into bed with the lucky bronzerider was one thing, but Laura had done it all while heavily pregnant.

When Stiles tuned back into his friends, both Allison and Scott were looking at him curiously. “Your face did this weird…” Allison waved a hand over her face, contorting her expression into a look of surprise. “This whole, weird thing.”

“Syleth says that Laura wants to thank me in person,” Stiles squeaked, the prospect making his stomach lurch.

Allison grinned at him. “Bully for you, then. I’m due a dressing-down – I just got a lecture on conduct-appropriate-for-a-future-weyrleader last sevenday and now it’ll be round two all over again.”

Scott’s eyes went wide, as though it hadn’t occurred to him that future weyrwoman shouldn’t get caught making out with their boyfriends in the stables. “Will she really care?”

“Her general advice was ‘do as I say, not what I do, and _don’t get caught_ ’.”

“A wise woman, clearly,” said Melissa, from the doorway. “It’s a pity nobody around here takes her advice.”

The horror and embarrassment flooding the room redoubled, making Syleth nudge her head closer to Stiles in dismay. Allison closed her eyes and appeared to be taking deep breaths before turning to smile at Scott’s mother.

“Mom,” Scott croaked, looking green.

“Scott. Allison,” Melissa greeted, giving the pair of them the hairy eyeball as she passed Allison the mug of wine. “Pass this to Stiles please – Stiles, drink it all and get some sleep. As for you, Scott… Get on out here. We need to have a talk.”

Scott flashed wide, pleading eyes at Stiles and Allison, both of whom pretended very hard that he wasn’t being marched to his doom. When it came to advice with mother-figures, they were neither of them experts. Scott was on his own.

Defeated, Scott followed his mother out into the hall and towards the private area she marked off as her office-slash-surgery.

“You just left him to swing,” Stiles observed, grinning at Allison and toasting her with his mug of medicine-laced wine. “Cold. Very, very cold.”

“He’s a big boy, he can take care of himself,” Allison said, loftily.

Stiles threw up his hands, horrified. “Too much information!” 

Allison snorted at him, coming over to settle next to his bed. Syleth immediately nosed closer, pushing her snout beneath Allison’s hand. The golden Lustreth was already a third bigger than Syleth, and Allison frequently waxed poetic about missing the smaller, more portable version of her lifemate. Lustreth was almost too large to fit through the great hall’s doorway.

Her fingers found Syleth’s favorite spot, just above her eyeridge, and scratched. The dragonet huffed in pleasure, eyes sliding closed.

“I _am_ sorry for abandoning you,” Allison told him, softly. “I should have been there to help.”

“It’s fine,” Stiles said, smirking. “I’m used to it by now. You and Scotty – joined at the hip, love at first sight, etc etc. You know I’m happy for you.”

A mute, uncertain expression passed across Allison’s features, making Stiles pause and recalibrate his understanding of their situation. He knew Allison’s expressions like the back of his hand, and that particular expression was a complicated one. “Should I … not be happy for you?”

Allison looked away, fingers stilling momentarily. “No, it’s fine. I have a lot to be happy about. You’re just making it sound like a done deal – but it’s more complicated than that.”

Stiles reached a hand out to squeeze her knee. “Hey. Do you want to talk about it?”

Allison bit her lip. “Not really. Scott was supposed to be … I dunno. Fun.”

“And…”

“And this hasn’t been all that fun. I mean, cozying up in a barn is fun. But having the weyr talk about me like I have terrible judgment and no sense of class is substantially _less_ fun.”

Stiles made a face. “You know I’ll shut that down if anyone is dumb enouth to say it in front of me,” he told her, firmly. “And…well. You know I’m always down for awkward talks about feelings. Hit me up if you need to commiserate, any time.”

Allison laughed at that, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. “That’s a lie,” she said, shaking her head. “You hate feelings.”

“Only a lot,” Stiles agreed. “But I’d do it for you.”

“I can’t believe Trisan attacked you,” Allison told him, changing the subject neatly. She ran her fingers through his hair affectionately, carefully avoiding the lump on his head and politely ignoring his matted, dirty hair. It was probably a disgusting mess of sweat, snow, mud and blood, but she didn’t seem to mind. “I’m so sorry, Stiles. I feel awful for leaving you. This never would have happened if we’d been there.”

“You don’t know that,” Stiles scolded, closing his eyes as her nails raked against his scalp. It sent lovely shivers of relaxation down his spine. By Faranth, he loved this woman – she was the best friend a man could ask for. Melissa’s sweetwine was surprisingly fast-acting, washing away his pain and numbing the ache of his torso and skull. 

Allison just kept stroking his hair, fingers long and gentle, and elaborating on what she knew about the sequence of events that had unfolded when Stiles collapsed.

Finstock was the one to find Stiles – he’d stubbornly shrugged off the effects of the flight and followed Syleth’s trail through the snow. Her agonized wailing had alerted half the weyr to her rider’s predicament and guaranteed Stiles’ rescue – though by the time he weyrlingmaster had arrived on the scene Trisan was trapped beneath a flurry of furious claws.

“And Trisan?” Stiles asked, almost afraid to know the answer. When he closed his eyes he could see flashes of Peter Hale slinging a bloody arm over his shoulder. 

If Syleth had killed the drudge, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

Allison winced. “Syleth tore into him,” she admitted. “The bloody fool. Who strikes a rider in front of his dragon? What did he think was going to happen?”

Stiles swallowed tightly. “Is he… did she…”

Her eyes widened. “Oh, no! He’s alive. He’s alive and likely wishing he wasn’t, actually. I heard Melissa had to give him a hundred and seventeen stitches.”

Stiles just closed his eyes. “Good,” he whispered. 

_‘He hurt you,’_ Syleth said simply, feeling not the slightest shred of remorse for her assault. Stiles wished, not for the first time, that his world was as black-and-white as that of the dragons. He knew it was only her solemn awareness of his pain that kept Syleth curled alone on the floor – he could feel how badly she wanted to lay her head against him. Wincing, Stiles shifted to his left, making room on the cot for her snout.

She intuited his meaning instantly and gratefully perched her chin on his mattress, pressing her cool nose into his armpit and huffing a satisfied sigh as his right hand began to stroke soothingly along her eye ridge. 

“I could have been like him,” Stiles said, too tired to feel embarrassed about comparing himself to Trisan.

“You’re nothing like him!” Allison and Syleth said this together, in such perfect tandem that Stiles had to chuckle. The motion made his ribs feel tight and achy, though the medicine kept it from being outright painful. 

He waited for their affronted to die down and then continued, waving a hand helplessly at Allison. “Come on. I wanted a dragon so badly. I would have done anything to be searched –”

“Except let me go first,” Allison teased him gently. Stiles stuck his tongue out at her.

“Well, that wasn't my best moment. But think about it…. I’d never interacted with a dragon or rider. I had no reason to believe I was suitable for a dragon, but I was so _sure_. Right down to the core of me. I truly believed it would happen if I could just get myself noticed by someone, and then Lycanth noticed _you_...”

Syleth’s eyelids began to droop. _‘You were right,_ ’ she said. _‘I noticed you. A bright white light in the darkness. And when I felt you, I couldn’t keep from moving. I wanted out. I wanted you._ ’

Stiles smiled broadly, allowing himself to bask in her affection, sparing a moment to feel utterly grateful that he, unlike Trisan, was privileged enough to share this connection with such a complex and perfect being.

‘I was right,’ he agreed, adoring her.

Allison gave them their moment, then nudged Stiles’ arm with her elbow. “Either share with the class or continue the conversation aloud,” she ordered in her best FInstock impression. It made Stiles smile wistfully and continue aloud.

“It’s just…. I mean, imagine being so sure that you’re Rider material. You abandon your hold and work for years as a drudge in the hopes of being chosen as a candidate,” Stiles told Allison, squinting at her when the scalp massage stopped. “And then you turn out to be so completely dragondeaf that you fail to notice a bloody mating flight, and you’ve wasted years of your life for nothing.”

Alison gaped. “He didn’t notice?”

“He thought he’d be in trouble for letting the herdbeasts out,” Stiles groaned. “He thought I was sabotaging him.”

“That’s awful,” Allison said, more quietly. The idea of being dragondeaf was abhorrent to anyone bonded to a dragon. Logically, Stiles knew he’d spent fifteen turns alone in his own head, but the idea of a life without dragonspeak was awful. “Even so... When you weren’t Searched, you hiked a hundred miles just to wish me luck.”

He smiled, faintly. The humiliation of his accidentally fleeing Derek’s Search party was fading from embarrassment into a rueful memory... or maybe that was just the wine at work. 

“Being disappointed by your own choices doesn’t give you the right to take it out on someone else. With a temper like that it’s no wonder no dragonrider thought him suitable. What hatchling would attune itself to rage and anger?”

Stiles half-expected Syleth to chime in at that, but her even breathing told him she’d already succumbed to sleep.

“I know they can be dangerous,” he told Allison gently, stroking Syleth’s eyeridge with care. “But I didn’t think she’d go so far to protect me.”

“Wouldn’t you, to protect her?”

The answer to that question was instant and obvious. Stiles would have done anything for Syleth. He’d certainly would have shredded anyone who laid a hand on her, and wouldn’t have felt a moment’s guilt over the action.

“I’d do anything for her,” he agreed, softly.

“Get some rest,” Allison told him, pulling her hand away and smiling at him. “You need to regain strength, and I need to find some supper.”

“Fine,” Stiles said, yawning. The effects of Melissa’s sweetwines were heady and impossible to resist for long. “Allison?”

“Yes?”

“I meant it about the feelings stuff,” he told her, muzzily.

“I know,” she laughed, the sound drifting into his dreams.

•○•

When he woke again, Syleth had pressed her head up onto his uninjured shoulder, her draconic breath huffing against his cheek and wafting his hair across his forehead. She was calm and quiet in sleep, and the quick brush of his mind against hers told him that she was even dreaming pleasant dreams.

Stiles closed his eyes again, not wanting to wake her. It had been a difficult few days, and she needed the rest as much as he did. It was no small miracle that her terrified plunge through the snow had resulted in nothing worst than a few icy cuts to the bottoms of her feet. She could easily have broken a leg or torn a wing.

He exhaled slowly, willing himself to remain calm. Syleth was safe, and he was safe. For now, all they needed was rest.

They dozed for an indeterminate amount of time, warm and comfortable, until there was a rustle of the infirmary curtain being drawn back. Melissa’s voice called softly, “Still asleep?”

Stiles was about to answer, but Allison did it for him. “Yeah.” 

He hadn’t realized she’d been sitting with him – it was good of her to stay. 

Melissa cleared her throat. “Allison,” she said, the curtain rustling again. “Could I speak with you for a moment?”

“I… sure. Yeah. Okay.” There was a rustle as Melissa let herself in, and Stiles felt a twinge of guilt. He shouldn’t be listening in on their conversation, but if it had anything to do with his situation…

“Don’t look so worried,” Melissa said, huffing out a little laugh. “I heard about what happened in the stables – you and Scott, I mean. I wanted to make sure you were alright.”

Allison let out a little squeak of dismay and Stiles spared a moment to feel horrified on her behalf. He focused on keeping his breathing short and steady, not wanting to embarrass Allison any further by revealing that he was awake.

“Allison, I’m Scott’s mother, but I’m also a healer – and I’m asking this as a healer, not a parent. Dragon-fueled passion occasionally leads to – over-enthusiasm, and that can sometimes mean an injury someone may be too shy to share with their local healer. It can also prevent people from utilizing the proper safety precautions needed to avoid pregnancy. _Particularly_ if they’ve never been with someone sexually before.”

“Oh my god,” Allison moaned as though the words caused her physical pain, the sound muffled. Stiles was willing to bet she was hiding her face in her hands. “No, it’s – it’s fine. It didn’t get that far. We were interrupted before – it’s fine.”

Melissa was quiet for a moment. “I ought to speak with Finstock,” she said, sighing. “We really should do a class on mating flights, especially for the holdborn.”

“What… what do you mean?”

“Dragonriders have lots of practice avoiding secondhand lust,” Melissa admitted, wryly. “Dragonflights make sex urgent, and the unprepared may make decisions they wouldn’t normally consider. It’s easy to get caught up in the moment even if it complicates your life after the fact.”

“That’s an understatement,” Allison muttered, tiredly. 

“Most dragonriders have a standing agreement with _someone_ , their weyrmate or an interested party… to make sure that needs are met without overstepping any bounds.”

“Like, a – you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours sort of agree—oh, that sounded awful. I didn’t mean that in a dirty way, I swear!”

Melissa laughed, then obviously realized their voices were escalating, and hushed her tone again. Stiles had to strain to hear her as she continued. “Well, yes. That’s how I ended up with Scott – his father and I were never married, but before he flew that gold over in Fort Weyr I accompanied him through many flights.”

Allison made a shocked sort of noise in the back of her throat. Stiles had to admit, even _he_ felt a bit shocked. “Melissa!”

“What? Don’t look so scandalized! It’s not uncommon, and Scott knows. Pern knows neither of us wanted more from R’fael, he was a bit of an ass on his best days. That’s the reason we transferred to Beacon together – when he became junior weyrleader Scott and I both needed some space.” 

“That’s just – that’s different from the holds,” Allison muttered, thoughtfully. “I can ... well, I can see the appeal.”

“Golds occasionally choose the dragon of the man their rider loves. Some goldriders accept the rider of the dragon’s mate as their weyrmate, others demand a stand-in for the physical elements of the relationship, though they must respect that bronzerider as their fellow weyrleader. There are lots of different ways to skin that cat. The important thing is that you are only physically intimate with someone you’re 100% comfortable with, Allison. I’m glad it was Scott for you – he’s crazy about you.”

Allison’s next words surprised Stiles – chiefly due to their lack of enthusiasm. “I’m – I’m glad too.” 

Melissa evidently sensed her hesitation as well. “ _Are_ you comfortable with Scott?” she asked, gently. 

“No, I am! Scott’s wonderful,” Alison said, quickly. “I – I really like Scott. He’s great. I just…”

She trailed off into quiet snuffles, and it took Stiles an embarrassingly long moment to realize that she was crying. His eyes snapped open and scanned the room until he spotted the two women, arms wrapped around one another. His sense of intrusion quadrupled, until the guilt at feigning sleep weighed heavily on his already-tender chest.

“Hey, it’s okay, here. You’re okay.”

Stiles couldn’t see Allison’s face, obscured as it was by a fall of dark hair and her trembling shoulders, but he knew how much she hated to cry. It didn’t surprise him when she straightened herself up stiffly, wiping at her eyes with one sleeve of her dark green tunic.

“All my life people have decided things for me,” she told Melissa, blinking rapidly. “My dad never made demands, but I knew what he needed me to do. Marry some neighboring holder’s son, keep Beacon Hold in the family, have a couple of kids to continue the family lineage … what choice did I really have?”

Melissa didn’t tell her she was wrong, or feed her some patronizing line about how there was always a choice. Instead she just nodded, recognizing those obligations and the position they put Allison in. Alison saw this too, and appeared encouraged. She rubbed at her eyes again. “When I came here and impressed I ended up with all of his expectations _plus_ all the pressures of being a junior weyrwoman.” 

Allison worried her lower lip, looking away. “And I would never undo it – I could never regret impressing Lustreth! But Scott was supposed to be my choice. That’s what makes him so special. He chose me before I Impressed. He liked me for me.”

“He _likes_ you for you,” Melissa corrected, gently.

“Likes,” Allison agreed, miserably. “But I wanted to sleep with him when _I_ wanted to sleep with him, because I was ready, and I liked him, and I could! Not because the dragonlust was catching. And not because his bronze caught my gold and the weyr was going to shove us together as weyrleaders.”

Melissa reached out to smooth Allison’s hair out of her eyes. The gesture was deeply maternal, and Allison began to sniffle again. Stiles’ heart ached for her, knowing how badly she must wish this was her own mother, not Scott’s, listening to her bare her soul.

“Then it's a good thing you were interrupted,” Melissa told her. “Now you have time to talk to him about it. And you should, Allison. I know my Scottie, and he wouldn’t want to do anything you weren’t entirely committed to and comfortable with.”

Allison sniffed again. “Yeah. I know. I just don’t want to send him mixed messages, or make things worse.”

“He’s a smart kid,” Melissa laughed. “Though it doesn’t always show. He’s certainly smart enough to realize that a ‘I want to do this, but only in certain situations’ isn’t a no, and isn’t a relationship-ending statement. And if he takes it that way, well. Send him my way and I’ll knock some sense into his thick skull.”

Allison laughed. “Okay. Okay, I’ll do it.”

“Good. Now I’m going to get out of here before we wake up sleeping beauty over there.”

“He’s been awake for ages,” Allison told her, making Stiles twitch with surprise. He probably would have flailed about were it not for the ache that had slowly but surely returned to every part of his body below the shoulders. 

The jolt was more than enough to wake Syleth, who raised her head and blinked dazedly around, her eyes shining soft green/blue with relaxation and contentment. Stiles felt the moment she gathered her thoughts and realized that they were in the hospital wing, not their bunk in the weyrling quarters, because her rider was hurt.

She immediately nosed at his torso, as though suspicious that he might have come to further harm during their nap – so he soothed her gently before glancing guiltily over at Allison and Melissa. 

Melissa favored Stiles with a judgmental look, patiently ignoring Syleth’s nervous snuffling. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you that eavesdropping is rude?”

“I – it’s _my_ room!” Stiles said, pinned beneath her gaze.

Allison gave her shoulder a squeeze. “It’s fine, Melissa. I figured he was awake. Now he’s up to date without us having to have an uncomfortable conversation about feelings. Stiles always freaks out because he doesn't know how to handle it when I cry,” Allison told her, seriously.

“Thank Faranth,” Stiles muttered. “I hate feelings.”

“Don’t we all?” Allison agreed.

“Well, then. Speaking of feelings,” Melissa said, standing and wiping her hands on her leggings. Thankfully, she seemed perfectly content to let the serious topic. “Let’s see how you’re doing.”

Once he passed muster, Melissa offered him another sickly-sweet cup of deep red wine and set Stiles drowsing within minutes. 

This time his sleep was dreamless and deep.

•○•

The following day started with an awkward hobble to the chamber pot. Allison appeared and walked Syleth both to and from the dining hall, sneaking Stiles a pair of sweetcakes because she was the best of best friends. Syleth refused to bathe without him, so she dozed nearby, bored, while Melissa put Stiles to work on simple tasks that didn’t require much physical movement beyond his arms and hands, which hadn’t sustained much damage in his tussle with Trisan.

He was rolling bleached white bandages for future use when Laura and Derek appeared in the doorway of the infirmary.

Laura was easily the most pregnant woman Stiles had ever seen, dressed in a heavy fur robe that bulged out over her belly. Derek stood at her elbow, scowling at anything that crossed his path – including Stiles.

“You must be Stiles, late of Beacon Hold,” Laura said, letting herself into the room. Syleth’s head swiveled to her with the kind of rapt attention she rarely granted to a human other than Stiles – Laura’s golden Aconith was her mother, and though dragons did not feel familial bonds in the way humans did, Syleth was still young enough to find both the queen and her rider fascinating. 

“I am,” Stiles agreed. “Weyrwoman, you needn’t have troubled yourself to come all this way…”

“It’s only a few steps,” Laura said, shrugging one shoulder with a faint smile as though she didn’t live at the very top of the caldera wall. She and Derek were of a height, boasting matching dark hair and pale eyes. Laura’s face was lighter somehow – glowing with a pale, soft kindness that Derek’s harder expressions lacked. Or was that some effect of her pregnancy on her countenance?

“I came to thank you for your help yesterday,” Laura said, moving to Stiles’ bedside. Derek, a doting attendant, immediately dragged over a wooden stool for her to rest on – but Laura waved him away with a hand. “Derek told me it was your foresight at the stables that resulted in Aconith’s meal and subsequent flight.”

“I hope she flew well,” Stiles said, weakly. “Really, my only thought was for the weyr.”

“She did,” Laura grinned at him, eyes crinkling at the corners. Despite her soft expression, Stiles felt exposed beneath her stare – a bit like an interesting bug pinned to a bit of parchment for inspection and cataloguing. “And you thought quickly, which is to your credit.”

“Any would do as I did,” Stiles told her, a bit embarrassed by the praise. He could feel his cheeks going pink at her words.

 _‘That is untrue,’_ Syleth complained at his self-deprecating remark. _‘Scott and Allison were there, and they thought of nothing but themselves.’_

‘That’s not the same thing.’

 _‘Isn’t it?’_ Syleth asked, annoyed.

“I certainly owe you my thanks,” Laura continued as though Syleth had not interrupted Stiles’ participation in the conversation. It was funny how used to those strange pauses you could become – before Impression, Stiles had found conversation with dragonriders stilted due to strange silences and pauses. Now the silences felt normal –they weren’t silences at all, but moments filled with telepathic dragonspeak. 

Laura’s expression shifted, going cooler. “I also want to let you know personally that we’ll be removing your assailant from the weyr as soon as he is well enough to travel.”

Stiles swallowed, throat suddenly going tight. “You’re going to kick him out? In the middle of winter, with thread close at hand…?”

The weyrwoman studied him thoughtfully. “Derek told me that this boy has been targeting and harassing you for months.

“It was stupid stuff,” Stiles protested, weakly. He felt ill at the thought of Trisan being holdless, all because of him. “He’s just a kid.”

“He’s nineteen years old,” Laura corrected him, gently. “That’s old enough to know right from wrong. His decisions are no fault of yours, and my decision with what to do with him is mine alone.”

Derek interrupted her impatiently. “Thread is coming – and though our riders have trained all their lives to handle the threat, there’s going to be a learning curve as we fight. In all likelihood we’re looking at food shortages, next spring – when the thread deniers may not have set aside enough food to last them through. They weyr may not receive full tithes, or any tithes. We’re being practical.”

Stiles blinked.

“What my dearest baby brother is trying to say is that Beacon Weyr can’t afford to feed and house someone unsuited to life in the weyr. He bullied, attacked, and ultimately assaulted a rider. If he’d had seriously injured Syleth, I’d be down a dragon and the fight against thread would be that much more difficult.”

“There is no place at the weyr for any man who would strike a dragon,” Derek agreed, hotly. He was staring at Syleth, whose anxious eyes whirled with orange and gold.

“I don’t see how you can be so worried,” Derek muttered, unhappy. “After what he did to you.”

Stiles just shrugged, worry and guilt a heavy lead weight in the pit of his stomach. He wasn’t worried for some selfless reason – he just didn’t want to be responsible for the death of another man.

“With that said,” Laura continued, evidently oblivious to his continued anxiety, “I’d like to extend a small token of gratitude to you for your help.”

Stiles’ eyes widened. “You don’t have to do that,” he said, weakly.

“I’d like to,” Laura said, firmly. “I owe you a favor. Is there anything you require? Are you comfortable in the weyrling barracks?”

Stiles licked his lips. Derek jerked his gaze away sharply, dropping his eyes to Syleth instead.

“I have all I need,” Stiles told her, his eyes trailing fondly over to the green dragonet. Then a thought occurred to him. “Actually,” he said, squaring his shoulders. “Scratch that. I want you to reconsider your plans for Trisan. Throwing him out of the weyr at this time of year is a death sentence,” Stiles pointed out, tensely. “It’s not right.”

Laura’s blinked, looking surprised. “Faranth, no! We’re not going to dump him out on a mountain pass somewhere, Stiles. We’ll fly him back where he came from, or drop him elsewhere if there’s someplace he’d rather go.”

Stiles gaped. “But… but you said—“

“I guess I should have been more clear,” Laura said with a wince. “He’s a bit old to apprentice in a craft, but some holder somewhere will want a man with his skillset. He’s strong enough, and being away from the dragons may cool his jealous temper.”

Stiles felt the knot in his chest relax slightly. While he had his doubts that Trisan would find a place so easily, surely his birthhold would take him back. It was a shame that he’d spent his prime apprenticeable years serving food and mucking stables, but Trisan – like any hopeful candidate – would have realized that there was no guarantee he’d Impress and gain a dragon of his own. 

He nodded then, relieved.

Derek folded his arms over his chest, apparently less forgiving than his older sister. “He doesn’t deserve —” 

“Please,” Stiles repeated, swallowing tightly. Derek stared at him for a long moment before muttering and looking away.

“Fine.”

“As though you get to make that decision,” Laura laughed, knocking her knuckles against Derek’s shoulder. “I was serious about that request, though.”

“I’d take a firelizard or two,” Stiles told her, smirking. Firelizards were incredibly expensive in this part of the world – Beacon Hold and the weyr protecting it were landlocked, far away from the sandy shores where firelizards laid their eggs beneath the hot sand. The little creatures were able to teleport _between_ just the way their draconic relatives could, and finding a nest of eggs buried beneath the sand when the parents could vanish instantaneously was like finding a needle in a haystack.

Laura made a face at his exorbitant request. “Just when I’d started thinking you were selfless,” she laughed.

“Well, then there’s nothing I need,” he told her, smirking. It would have been nice to have a firelizard egg. If his father had a flit, he’d be able to send letters to Stiles without having to wait until Allison’s firelizard was available and happened to be at the hold. 

Still, he could live without it. It’d been worth a try.

Laura rolled her eyes. “Well. I’m happy to write to the weyrwoman down in Ista, perhaps they know more? Or perhaps Derek would take you to the beaches, to do a bit of hunting yourself.” 

Derek’s attention jolted back to his sister, then to Stiles. “Of course,” he said faintly. Now that Stiles knew what to look for, he noticed Derek’s ears going pink immediately. Stiles really shouldn’t be noticing things like that – Derek had actually, honest to goodness _fled the scene_ of their almost-kiss. Stiles needed to get his feelings under control.

“I’d like that,” Stiles said, exhaling softly. He tried flashing Derek an uncertain smile, and Derek – thank Faranth – seemed to relax at the sight of it. “Though Melissa will have kittens if we go anytime soon. I’m on house-arrest for the foreseeable future.”

Stiles had never been to the beach – had never even seen the ocean – and the thought of doing so with Derek made the affection he’d been working so hard to squash down swell and grow. 

Laura grinned. “Wait until your foot heals, then – in the meantime, I’ll let Finstock know that you’ve permission to leave the weyr at will in the company of another rider.” She paused, thoughtfully. “That brings me quite neatly to my next point, actually. I’d been meaning to speak to you about this for a few days, but now is as good an opportunity as any.”

Stiles’ eyebrows shot up – he had no idea what the weyrwoman of Beacon Weyr might have to say to him.

“Derek tells me you’re the son of Beacon Hold’s guardcaptain.”

“Yes,” Stiles agreed. “Derek has kindly been bringing him to the weyr for visits.”

Laura nodded, unsurprised. “Allison told me. She also mentioned that her father had little interest in making the journey himself.”

Stiles’ attention sharpened slightly. Was that why Laura had bothered to come down to thank him in person? For information on Allison? “I think Holder Chris is still adjusting to the idea that she’s a dragonrider,” he said, neutrally. 

“I suppose that’s partially my fault,” Laura admitted. “When Aconith didn’t rise, I let other weyrs Search for candidates in our territory, but no one was permitted at Beacon Hold for a great many years. At the time it seemed prudent given … well, given the givens. Derek’s visit to your birthhold reaped years’ worth of viable candidates. It doesn't surprise me that Chris would resent the loss of so many promising young men and women all at once, let alone his own daughter.”

Stiles simply stared at her, astonished that Laura would confide such a thing in him.

“Allison is important to me, Stiles,” Laura said, simply. “She’s the perfect candidate for junior weyrwoman. She’s eloquent, carries herself well, is physically healthy … I need to know that the weyr has a viable goldrider to carry on our traditions if something were to happen to me.” 

Beside her, Derek shifted, clearly grumpy at the thought of Laura in danger.

“You know Allison better than anyone in this weyr. She speaks highly of you, and your conduct yesterday at great physical peril to your own self demonstrates to me that her confidence is not misplaced. I want to aide Allison in mending her relationship with her father. Lydia predicts the first Threadfall for any day this month, and there are a great many thread-deniers in the territory for which Beacon Weyr is responsible. Chris follows the old ordinances; he believes in the weyr, despite our… previous diplomatic breakdowns. I’m going to need him on my side in the coming months.”

“I – don’t understand what you want from me,” Stiles admitted, confused.

“I want you to go to Beacon Weyr and see your father, and – and Chris. You don’t have to speak to him directly, but perhaps seeing you whole and happy would inspire confidence in him. It might inspire him to answer at least one of Allison’s letters,” she added, looking tired.

“I would be happy to take you,” Derek said solemnly from his place behind Laura. _That_ surprised Stiles more than the mission itself – it was hard to look at Derek and not imagine the heated, dark expression he’d worn when their mouths were so close. Stiles knew the smell of him, the taste of his breath – and was now forced to sit here, pretending that he knew nothing of the sort.

“But – I mean. I’m just a gangly weyrling. I’m hardly hold liaison material,” Stiles told Laura, making a face. “If you’re looking to inspire confidence in your care of Beacon’s former residents, we should probably wait until my limp has healed.”

Laura favored him with a lopsided smile. “Melissa tells me you have another few days of bedrest and will then return to limited duties provided you keep weight off your foot,” she laughed. “But think on it. What I know of Chris suggests he is a stubborn man, unlikely to be won over with gifts. Still, if you think a gift would sweeten the air between us….”

Stiles snorted. Any gift from the weyr would end up in the refuse heap before Chris could even read the attached card. “No, you’re spot on. Gifts aren’t the way to go – though I’m happy to do what I can to calm the waters.”

“Thank you,” Laura said, genuinely. “Now. I believe Derek has a few things he wishes to speak to you about.”

That last bit was added with a very innocent smile – Laura turned and hefted herself to her feet, then gave Derek a shoulder squeeze as she passed him. Though the man’s posture had relaxed throughout the conversation, her final words had him reverting to his earlier ramrod straight stance. His expression was that of a herdbeast caught in the path of an oncoming dragon – that was to say, pure terror. 

His sister sashayed through the beaded curtain that divided Stiles’ little alcove from the rest of the infirmary, leaving them alone.

Stiles – and Syleth, her head still perched on his stomach – simply looked at Derek.

“I…” Derek said, looking away. “I wanted to apologize.”

“What could you possibly have to apologize for?” Stiles asked drily, eyebrows spiking at Derek’s hangdog expression

“You were first to the stables, first to realize that Aconith required sustenance to fly... given the unreliable nature of her flights, we had no idea if or when she would rise again. We were unprepared. And that flight was critical to the status of Beacon Weyr, and to Laura’s ability to hold her position.” He grimaced. “A barren queen would likely be stripped of her titles at the conclave.”

“Be that as it may, I’m still not seeing the need for an apology,” Stiles observed.

“I don’t like to be in the weyr when Aconith rises,” Derek said, bluntly. “The first time, Lycanth and I fled to Ista. This time I realized that something was wrong, and we stayed longer than we should have.”

Stiles hadn’t, for a moment, considered that aspect of mating runs. Almost all dragons were related to some degree, but it had little impact on their choice of mate. Weyrs made a point of transferring bronze and brown dragons between themselves to widen the gene pool when golds rose to mate, but it was not uncommon for mates to be somehow interrelated, sometimes many times over. The humans attached to them, though – they had plenty of hangups about whom they paired with. 

Stiles would, one day, share secondhand in the tumultuous passion when Allison’s Lustreth rose to mate. The prospect made him feel slightly ill – she was the closest thing he had to a sister, and he had no desire to participate in her mating runs. He could imagine how much stranger that situation would be if they were actually blood relatives.

“Bronzes find it very difficult not to answer the mating call of a gold, even one that is their half-sibling,” Derek admitted. “I was under pressure when I came across you in the stableyard. I should have noticed that you were injured – and I should never have pawed at you like that.”

Stiles had never heard Derek string that many words together at once. All he could think to say was: “You didn’t paw at me. You – steadied me.” He looked down, then glanced back up at Derek through his lashes, embarrassed. “I needed steadying.”

“And then I abandoned you injured in the snow,” Derek said, scowling.

“Scott and Allison were nearby – I wasn’t alone,” Stiles said, gently. 

“And they were such a helpful resource at the time,” Derek snorted, rolling his eyes. “That’s an entirely different topic – but one I’ll let Finstock handle. My point was that …” he trailed off, swallowing tightly. “My point was that flights are complicated, and every rider should know where he stands with others before approaching them in the heat of the moment. I did not do that; and for that I respectfully apologize.”

Stiles swallowed tightly. During Aconith’s flight he’d wanted nothing more than to be close to Derek. Now, a day later, that desire was still bubbling under his skin – though in a containable, less all-consuming sort of way. He wanted to give Derek blanket permission, so that the next time they were thrown together during a dragon’s heat, they could enjoy it together.

But all he managed to vocalize was a short, simple phrase. “I accept your apology.”

Derek looked – of all things – relieved. “Good,” he said, nodding to himself. “That’s good.”

Not knowing what else to say, Stiles gave Syleth a final scratch. “Can I ask a favor of you, Rider Hale?”

“I… of course,” Derek said, painfully earnest.

“Would you escort Syleth to her midday meal?” he asked, feeling suddenly shy. Syleth scarcely moved, but her eyes flicked back to Stiles, a tinge of dry humor in their depths. “She simply eats too much for us to cart her meals into the infirmary – and Melissa is funny about having raw meat strewn about the place.”

 _‘I can’t see why,’_ Syleth grumbled mentally. _‘It’s perfectly good meat.’_

“She likes you – she’d go, if you went with her.”

“I can certainly take care of her,” Derek agreed, looking relieved to be given a task that was actually useful. “Syleth? Will you join me?”

The little green swiveled her head, butting up against Stiles’ cheek, then shifted back on her haunches and stood, obediently padding over to Derek’s side. He gave her head a gentle stroke—and Stiles, not for the first time, wished he and Syleth shared every sensation.

“Be good,” Stiles ordered. “Both of you.”

 _‘I’m always good,’_ Syleth muttered mentally, allowing Derek to lead her from the infirmary.

•○•

By his third day in the infirmary, Stiles was driving Melissa mad. He couldn’t help it – he was _bored_. Even Syleth, finally satisfied that he was not about to drop dead over a broken foot and a few bruised ribs, abandoned him in favor of running and playing with the other dragonets, returning to the infirmary only during the napping hours. In a way it was good – dragonriders could not always be in the presence of their life partners, and the codependence of dragonets would eventually grow into a mental bond that did not require physical presence to remain strong and true. Stiles and Syleth were quickly outstripping her peers in terms of her development, and their ability to go for more than five hours at a time without physical contact was unique amongst their peers.

Besides, between Allison, Scott and Derek, Syleth was again well-fed and well-scrubbed. Stiles insisted on keeping their evening applications of oil to himself, despite Melissa’s complaints about the mess – and every evening he would scramble to the floor with her, working oil into her hide and asking about her day with the weyrling wing.

The foot was definitely broken. “Short of a dolphin sounding we can’t be sure, but – look at this contusion,” Melissa said, running a thumb over the discolored flesh. His foot was certainly less swollen, but there was still an ugly lump over the outside, closer to his small toe. “There are ten small bones in a man’s foot. I’d say at least one or two are cracked.”

“What does that mean?” Stiles asked, heart sinking.

“No excessive walking,” Melissa said, thoughtfully. “You need to keep it elevated as much as possible. You’re young and healthy, but these things normally take anywhere from six to twelve sevendays to heal.” 

“Twelve sevendays?!” Stiles groaned. “There’s no way I can sit here for _twelve sevendays_.”

“You’re telling me,” Melissa smirked. “No. You’ll be reinstalled in the weyrling wings tonight, and go back to participating in any study-related assignments. When the weyrlings do physical labor that would require standing or walking, report to Lydia to assist with her research projects.”

Stiles’ face lit up. “Really?”

Melissa laughed. “It was Scott’s idea. He thought you’d enjoy it.”

Stiles grinned. “He knows me so well,” he said happily, though he was confident that the idea had been Allison’s suggestion, filtered through Scott so that his mother would be receptive.

Thus, come afternoon, Stiles found himself propped up between two metal crutches and clearing his throat in the doorway to Lydia’s library. Lydia, like Derek, moved in circles far removed from those of the lowly weyrlings. She was a young but brilliant fixture at the weyrleader’s table at the head of the great hall, engaging in easy conversation with senior wingleaders and visiting master-crafters alike. Stiles felt certain that half of the rumors about here were exactly that – rumors – and the other half were likely to be gross exaggerations.

That knowledge did not do much to quell his growing fascination.

Lydia’s library was in an _old_ part of the weyr – only the most ancient halls were cut into the stone with such smooth precision, the arches and gables perfectly symmetrical. It boasted perfectly measured vaulted ceilings inlaid with metal sconces that framed ethereal glowworm lanterns. Their light was tinged blue and relatively dim, so someone had staged another three lanterns across wide table at the center of the room. The table’s surface was covered with a thin slab of marking slate covered in tiny, cramped calculations – and a second slate stood propped up against the wall behind it, equally covered in complex notations that looked for all the world like some kind of magical code.

Beyond the table and the slate were – well. Shelves. Shelves, and shelves, and more shelves of boxes, crates, piles, stacks – it looked like the attics at Beacon Hold time one hundred, crammed with everything the residents could not bear to be parted from. The long rows would have quickly dissipated into murky darkness, but somewhere down the hallways additional lanterns had been hung, their glow silhouetting the jumbled contents of the room. 

“Lydia?” Stiles called, uncertainly. The room was much bigger than he’d expected, and the silent shadow of shelves and crates gave it a spooky, decayed feeling.

There was a low lounging chair adjacent to the table, so he leaned one crutch against it before proceeding into the long stacks. As he moved away from the door and into the depths the air tasted stale, tinged with the dusty, rotten scent of decaying vellum and old wood. 

Somewhere down the aisle a shadow shifted, and Stiles jumped, banging his elbow hard into the wall. He yelped at the sudden spike of pain and clutched at his left arm, muttering swear words to himself.

“Well, well, well.”

Stiles jumped again as Peter Hale materialized out of the darkness, his cold blue eyes catching the pale shine of the lanterns and refracting their eerie glow. “Rider Hale,” Stiles groaned in dismay, pressing a hand to his chest as his heart pounded wildly. 

“It’s been a long time since anyone called me that,” Peter said thoughtfully, inclining his head to Stiles in greeting. Stiles winced at his mistake – but he had no idea what honorific to use for a man whose dragon had been dead for years.

The thought of living dragonless sent a slimy shiver of discomfort down Stiles’ spine, and he unconsciously sent a tendril of thought towards Syleth. Her sleeping mind was soft and warm and very much alive, and he breathed out in relief before focusing again on Peter.

“I….”

Peter waved a hand. Rather than obscure the harsh lines of his scarred face, the low light served only to underscore the asymmetry of his features – Stiles made himself maintain eye contact rather than look away in discomfort. “Lydia told me you’d been press-ganged into service after your little demonstration of heroism during my niece’s flight.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Stiles corrected, shifting his weight and wishing his hands weren’t occupied with his crutch. It made lingering in the aisle especially awkward.

“Completely selfless, then? A utilitarian choice for the betterment of all?” Peter smirked, disbelieving.

“She was hungry. I fed her,” he said, scowling. The crutches also made shrugging uncomfortable – it was going to be a long twelve sevendays. “It wasn’t exactly a tough decision.”

Even so, he forced himself to take a deep breath, fighting Peter’s intimidation. If he grew too nervous he would wake Syleth, and Peter’s creepy-yet-bizarrely-attractive face was hardly worth disturbing her nap over. “Is Lydia here?”

“No, but she’ll return soon enough. I’ve been appointed as her personal assistant,” Peter said, smiling as though the task was some kind of great cosmic joke.

Stiles eased forward, turning to examine the stacks of crates and boxes stacked on either side. Some were labeled, but most were not. The box nearest to him read ‘Clutch Records: Trysth’ – he muttered out loud as he read the faded inscription.

“My great-great-great grandmother’s gold,” Peter supplemented, following his gaze.

Stiles’ eyebrows climbed at the insinuation. “How long have there been Hales at Beacon Weyr?”

Peter simply shrugged at the question, as if he’d never bothered to check. “Long enough. And you read! What a pleasant surprise. We were concerned the weyrlingmaster had sent us over some uneducated son of a herder.”

“Of course I can read,” Stiles muttered, knowing full well that Peter knew his former status in Beacon Weyr. Though not related to the Lord Holder, his friendship with Allison had rendered him a well-educated man by any standards. When her father brought in tutors and harpers to instruct her privately, Stiles had always been included in the lessons. 

“If you can read, you can work.” Peter turned, beckoning Stiles down the aisle. They proceeded two-thirds of the way in before Peter halted, launching into an explanation without bothering to check to see if Stiles had followed him. He paid no mind to the injured foot, though Stiles limped and leaned against the stacks each time they stopped, obviously favoring his right side. 

“We are looking for documents that reference any location where thread was found, falling or burrowed, as well as references to time, date, weather, and – in case of burrows – the size of the nest. If you are uncertain whether or not a keyword is relevant, ask or set it aside and Lydia or I will look it over.”

Stiles’ eyebrows climbed. “The weyr keeps records of that?”

“For many turns, the Hales paid a penalty to holders per burned burrow, based on the diameter of incinerated thread-husk,” Peter said, with a shrug. “If the weyr does its job well, no thread should touch Pernese soil. When it doesn't, the thread devours valuable resources, putting farmers and holders at a loss after they tithed towards our upkeep.”

Stiles thought about that. Besides balancing the books, recording that data would help the weyr leadership determine the most effective flying patterns, and which wings were letting thread slip through. “So…” he thought aloud. “The weyr paid damages to maintain cordial relations with the tithing holds, and recorded the data to determine which wings were flying poorly.” It was a brilliant stroke, really. A gesture like that would go a long way with Beacon’s thread-deniers, who saw the dragonweyrs as dependent leeches on their resources.

Peter smiled as though Stiles was a youthful hound successfully performing its first trick. “Yes. That is why Lydia is _here_ , rather than any other weyr – not every weyrleader was so generous as the Hales, and when finances are involved, records tend to be meticulous.”

“What is she using it for?” Stiles asked, frowning.

“Now _that_ I am not permitted to disclose,” Peter said simply, sliding a box off the top shelf and jutting his chin back in the direction they had come. For the first time since they met, he glanced down at Stiles’ injured foot. “You may take the chaise. Your leg ought to be elevated.”

“No kidding,” Stiles muttered, rolling his eyes at the belated admonition.

Stiles hobbled back to the entryway, plucked up his spare crutch, and settled heavily in the chaise lounge pressed against one wall. There were already three crates settled next to it, and Peter added his most recent selection to the pile before thoughtfully supplying Stiles with one of the brighter lanterns from the table.

That done, he disappeared into the stacks once again.

Stiles settled in, hauling his leg up onto the fur-covered chair and examining the stack of crates. Each was as long as a roll of parchment was wide, and when he pried off the lid of the uppermost box he discovered they contained either round reams of paper or thinly worked vellum squares covered in scratchy handwriting of varied legibility.

While Beacon Hold housed a modestly impressive library, there was more parchment in those stacks than Stiles had ever seen in one place at one. In a world where thread devoured organic material, perishable resources like flesh, wood, and flora were rare and coveted. Sheaths of parchment, scrolls, and especially books were invaluable, easily damaged, and fiercely hoarded by the wealthy and privileged. For that reason, few people outside Harpers and Hold leadership ever learned to read – it was impractical and often unnecessary. After all, the teaching ballads they all learned as children were meant to be memorized and recited, and they taught the youth of Pern all they would need to know about practical daily tasks like counting, sowing, harvesting, and more. The guildhalls had songs of their own, practical and simple ways to codify and pass on the tricks of their trades.

Stiles reached in for the first files and gingerly ran his thumb across the smooth, expertly crafted vellum. A shiver of excitement ran through him. These soft sheets were knowledge granted physical form, written and preserved expressly so that someday in the future someone like Stiles could pick them up and simply _learn_. It didn’t matter what they contained – they were a missive from the past, a reminder of how many untold generations had walked the carved halls of Beacon Weyr.

He took a deep breath and dove in.

•○•

Stiles didn’t see Lydia for the first three days of his assignment – according to Peter she was visiting Fort, following a lead. Without her the work was a bit lonely, as Peter vacillated between sly banter and despondent silence, and frequently disappeared from the library altogether.

Stiles would have liked Syleth’s company in the records-room, but it was dark and quiet, and the little dragonet preferred sun and sand. On top of that, the idea of parading a healthy young creature in front of Peter felt particularly cruel.

Sensing his hesitation to allow her near, Syleth rumbled with annoyance. _‘He lives in a weyr,’_ she pointed out, grumpy at her exclusion from Stiles’ new space. _‘He sees dragons every day.’_

“Doesn’t matter,” Stiles muttered. Men who lost their dragons – men like Peter – were ripped open and scarred on the inside. Once bonded, dragons and riders were intimately connected on a mental, emotional, and even physical level – they shared joys and sorrows as often as they shared injury or illness. Losing that connection was by all accounts worse than the loss of a limb – and most whose dragons died chose death over life without their partner. Those who survived would never be completely whole again, let alone completely sane. 

Watching Peter function without a dragon was both fascinating and horrifying. Sometimes he acted almost normal, conversing with a sly wit and a charming smirk. Other times he would trail off into nothingness, staring into space as though a dragon were speaking to him – though obviously, no dragon was. Once in a while he would pick up a conversational thread from nowhere, derailing Stiles’ thoughts and demanding his attention on some unrelated subject until, tired of his wild hare, he grew angry or snide and the subject would be dropped.

Still, the work was good. It kept Stiles busy and satisfied the constant low-grade curiosity he generally felt about the world around him. He had grown up in a hold, and while he’d learned Pern’s history and knew the basic concept of weyr life, it was still fascinating to wade through the minutia of ancient people. On the second day, Stiles found a scroll that contained records of Beacon Hold’s tithes during the last pass of the Red Star, and lost himself for at least three candlemarks. 

During the fifty year passes of the Red Star, the residents of the weyr were far too busy to ranch or farm or harvest the food needed to keep their dragons and riders healthy and well fed. They were frequently in inhospitable regions of the planet – which meant even if the time were available, riders were generally unable to support themselves. Traditionally, each weyr was supported by the holds it protected through quarterly tithes of their best crops, creatures, and crafts. As threadfall was intermittent throughout Pern’s history, falling in stretches of fifty to seventy years and then vanishing for hundreds of years at a time, holds often resented the need to support the weyrs in the interim – Stiles’ own birthhold was filled with thread-deniers who thought the legends were just legends and that tithes should be a thing of the past. Flipping through the stacks of records, Stiles quickly realized that the tension between Holders and Weyrfolk was far older than one might have expected – even though Beacon Hold’s tithes were larger and more diverse two hundred years ago than they were today.

It boggled the mind how holders could keep as fact and law the content of every teaching ballad handed down through their families, and yet ignore the vast amount of lore that suggested Thread was a very real threat. Every aspect of their lives was built around the assumption that only stone was safe – no Pernese worth their salt would dare to live out in the open in homes made of wood or stucco or thatch. Every farmer’s field had a stone shed or cave nearby where one might seek shelter from a sudden burst of threadfall. Hell, even the trees of forrests in areas unclaimed or uncultivated were uniform in size, suggesting all had been planted or reborn at the same point in time – as though growing up in the wake of a fire or ‘quake. 

“How are people so bloody stupid?” he wondered aloud, dropping the sheath of parchment he’d been perusing in disgust.

From the doorway a voice broke into his thoughts. “I ask myself that on a daily basis.”

Stiles’ head jerked up in surprise, and he found himself staring rather shamelessly at the pretty redhead framed by the doorjam. This, he knew, was Lydia – he’d seen her around the weyr, though they’d never had call to have a real conversation. She had long coils of brassy red hair and a perfect cupid’s-bow mouth. Had his massive, unrequited crush on Derek Hale not currently occupied the better part of his heart, Stiles had no doubt he would have fallen quick and hard for Lydia – she was his ‘type’ incarnate.

“Lydia,” he said, dumbly.

“Yes, that would be me. You must be the wounded weyrling Laura saddled us with,” Lydia observed, wrinkling her nose at the bootless foot propped up on her chaise lounge. “Please tell me you’ve actually been productive with your time here?”

Trying not to bristle at her evidently low expectations, Stiles pushed the small-yet-growing stack of relevant documents set aside towards her. In order to keep things organized he had devised a system to mark where each document had been originally located, numbering the crates and the slips that he neatly clipped to each potentially helpful document. Lydia eyed the system and – much to Stiles’ delight – nodded her grudging approval of his organizational tactics.

“Well, you’re no fool,” she said, moving over to his stack of parchment and leafing through them, pausing briefly here and there to scrutinize their contents.

“It’s nice to meet you too,” Stiles told her, sweetly.

“I’m not here to hold your hand and be friends,” Lydia told him, dismissing his words with a wave. Stiles got the impression that he as a human was far less interesting than the content he’d flagged. She paused at one record that he’d been particularly intrigued by – it counted no fewer than seventeen threadburrows formed when an unlucky blue had been scalded and downed, leaving his patch of Pern unprotected. The number was high, and their locations were detailed. “Dated,” Lydia muttered, pulling it from his pile and walking over to her table.

She swept one stack of paper aside and ran her finger down a line of latitude on the map beneath. Muttering calculations, she began to triangulate and notate the parchment.

“You’re charting threadfall?” Stiles blurted, surprised.

Lydia’s eyebrows rose. For the first time since she entered the room she looked at Stiles with mild interest. She and Peter were very much alike in some ways – they’d both mastered the kind of stare that made Stiles feel small and useless. “What makes you say that?”

“Well, it’s a bit obvious, isn’t it?” he waved at her table, annoyed that she should be so shocked by a basic deduction. “The only realistic way to track threadfall is by burrow, since the flamed thread vanishes into ash. Theoretically, the heavier the threadfall the more likely dragons are to miss strands. That makes burrows a reasonable metric by which to track the density of falls.”

“They’re also common at the edges of a fall, where dragonwings are thinner,” Lydia told him, still staring thoughtfully at him. “I have a formula. It’s all theoretical of course, but the math stands true ninety-three percent of the time. Of course, there’s no guarantee these records are accurate; and they rarely mention factors that mitigate falls – like weather, or illness or injured dragons in the weyr.”

“So you blame poor record-keeping rather than poor math?” Stiles asked, snorting in disbelief.

Lydia just smirked, tossing her hair. “My math is _never_ poor.”

“I suppose not,” Stiles agreed, looking at the finely-honed calculations on the nearest slate. “But the end goal isn’t historical, is it?”

“Once I’m within 97% accuracy I’ll take this to the weyrleader’s conclave,” Lydia said, thumbing affectionately at her map. “I need two, maybe three years of actual data for a statistically significant sample, but yes. The end goal isn’t historical, it’s predictive.”

Stiles let out a breath, impressed. He could see now why Lydia was so valued, and why the dragonriders in the weyr treated her as though she were Laura’s second in command. Predicting threadfall’s location and severity would be life-changing for the weyrs of Pern… particularly weyrs like Beacon, where the ranks of dragonriders were thin. The more effective their deployment, the more lives and land the riders could protect.

“To imagine that threadfall could be predicted,” he said, shaking his head in amazement. “I never thought it possible.”

“Most people don’t. They treat it like it’s weather – like some kind of terrible rain, but it’s _not_ ,” she said, firmly. “Colloquial wisdom tells us the arrival of the Red Star predicts threadfall, but I think there’s more – I think thread and the star are connected. It is their source, or perhaps it activates them and provides some kind of catalyst for the falls.” She squinted down at the paper he’d selected once again – and returned to her work as though Stiles had completely disappeared. 

He blinked at her sudden shift in attention, wondering what stray thought had so thoroughly engrossed her brilliant mind – but made no effort to interrupt her. Instead he reached for the nearest box and, mind whirling with the possibilities of the research, began to read again.

•○•


	3. Chapter 3

•○•

“There you are, Allison!”

Stiles’ head jerked up in surprise at the sudden warmth flooding Lydia’s tone. In the sevenday they’d been researching together, she had been many things – acerbic, sarcastic, thoughtful, and grudgingly impressed – but he’d never heard her sound pleased about something that wasn’t her work.

“Lydia,” Allison tilted her head in greeting, then laughed as Lydia swept up to her and kissed her cheek. Allison wore the training garb all weyrlings were issued upon Impression – a long brown tunic, tan breeches and heavy riding boots. Lydia, on the other hand, wore a layered blue dress with the sleeves tied back, leaving her hands free for calculation. She’d painted her lips that morning, a bright shade of red that complimented her curls. 

Stiles gave Allison a little wave from his perch on the lounge. “Hey, Alli!” 

“Hi, Stiles! How’s the foot?” 

“Slowly deflating,” he grinned, wiggling his toes proudly. The ache of his broken foot was still strong, but the rest and relaxation was definitely improving the situation.

Allison turned her attention back to Lydia, smiling brightly. “Lustreth said you wanted to speak to me?”

“I always want to speak to you,” Lydia smirked. “Come, come – I have something to show you.”

Stiles knew that Allison and Lydia were friendly, but he’d never had call to see them interact beyond brief greetings or the occasional meal together in the Great Hall on nights Allison was required to sit with the weyrleaders at the head table. Lydia didn’t associate with weyrlings, and Stiles didn’t have access to the inner workings of the weyr in the same way that Allison did. The women appeared comfortable with each other, and it made something deep within Stiles’ chest ache with both happiness and jealousy. He was glad that Allison had a female friend – she’d had so few in Beacon Hold. On the other hand, Lydia was yet another reminder of how well Allison was settling in, while Stiles still struggled to make friends and assimilate.

In the ten days since his injury, though, things had begun to improve. A few of the other weyrlings had started sitting with him at meals. It was too early to know if their friendly overtures were serious or if they just felt sorry for him, laid up as he was – but Stiles was happy for any friends he could get.

“Read this,” Lydia told Allison, canting a hip against the table and watching her reaction eagerly. Allison took the parchment and thumbed through the sheets.

“What is this?” she asked, eyebrows furrowed as she squinted at the cramped handwriting. 

“Clutch records,” Lydia said, waving a hand. “You’ll know what I mean when you come to—“

“ _Eleanor Argent?!_ ” Allison read with a gasp, eyes flying up to meet Lydia’s. “Is this real?”

“She appears several times in the records,” Lydia said, grinning back at Allison. “Eleanor Argent, youngest daughter of Maximillien, Lord Holder of Beacon.”

Allison looked down at the parchment again, rereading it as though she couldn’t believe it was true. “I had no idea we had riders in the family. Father never mentioned…”

“There’s more,” Lydia said, eagerly. “She eventually rose to be senior weyrwoman, her gold sired twenty-eight clutches, _and_ was weyrmated to Donovan Archibald Hale.”

Stiles’ jaw dropped.

“A Hale?”

Allison slumped down into the chair next to Lydia as though her strings had been cut. “I had no idea,” she repeated, shaking her head. “I wonder if dad knows.”

“I’m sure your father didn’t want to play up the fact that your aunt was distantly related to the weyrleaders she murdered,” Lydia pointed out, examining her nails in the lamplight. “Or that you’re related to Derek and Laura at some distant level. If this is true, he can’t have been entirely surprised you were Searched and ultimately Impressed. Everyone knows the propensity towards draconic bonding appears to travel in families.”

“But if he didn’t know, he might have been genuinely surprised,” Allison said, thoughtfully. “I wonder if knowing we have a family history of service in the weyr would help him make peace with my Impression.”

“I suppose that’s possible,” Lydia agreed, looking skeptical. 

“You know,” Stiles interrupted, studying Allison’s face with concern. “I’m visiting the hold in a few days. Father invited me to dinner, and Derek’s my ride. You could always join us and talk to him about it yourself.”

Allison’s face paled at the invitation. “I don’t know, Stiles.”

“One of you is going to have to extend the olive branch eventually,” Lydia said, surprising Stiles. She rarely agreed with him at all. “It benefits everyone if the weyr and the hold are on speaking terms, especially with Thread so close at hand.”

“I know that. I’m just not sure that he’s ready to see me.”

“What if I bring it up during my visit?” Stiles offered, kindly. “Beacon has a reasonable library, and most of the records there are untouched. There may be something in the Hold history that corroborates or corrects the information Lydia has gathered here. It could be useful, and would give me a nice excuse to bring it up.”

Lydia’s expression shifted from skeptical to downright eager. “That’s true. Corroboration of any details from a third-party source would inspire others to take my research more seriously at the Conclave.”

“The Conclave is three years away,” Allison said, rolling her eyes. “You don’t need us to fetch these records at this very moment.”

“My work is time-consuming,” Lydia said, primly. “Sooner is preferable to later.”

“You’re really going to visit the hold?” Allison asked. Stiles noticed that she no longer referred to Beacon Hold as home – it had taken a few months, but they’d both finally come to accept that Beacon Weyr would be their permanent residence. 

“Yeah,” Stiles said, smiling. After all, Laura had requested that he help Allison make amends with her father, but he’d been waiting for the bruises on his cheek to fade before the visit. It would be much easier to explain a herdbeast-related injury to his father than a swollen cheekbone, and his face was nearly healed.

“You’re welcome to join us. I know Derek wouldn’t mind.”

Lydia snorted at that. “I’ll say.”

The thought of flying to Beacon with Derek set Stiles’ heart squirming inside his chest – despite having lived in the weyr for almost months, he’d never had the opportunity to ride an actual dragon. Now that Syleth was independent enough to be left alone for a few hours, he was looking forward to cuddling as close as humanly possible to Derek as they flickered between and teleported back to his birthhold. 

Allison bit her lip. Stiles could guess at her thoughts – for all that Chris wasn’t answering her letters, it would be much harder to bear his silence if she went all the way to Beacon Hold and he refused to see her. “You go,” she finally told Stiles, brushing a stray lock of hair back behind her ear. “Perhaps if he hears it from you, it will give him time to think and respond rationally.”

Lydia’s brow furrowed at the pain in Allison’s voice, and then – much to Stiles’ surprise – she huffed a sigh and pulled her close. “He’ll come around,” she said, squeezing Allison in a tight hug. “You’ll see.”

Stiles watched the exchange – watched the way Lydia’s fingers dug into Allison’s waist, and the expression on Allison’s face as she buried her nose in Lydia’s hair, taking comfort in the other woman’s presence.

Perhaps, he realized with sudden clarity, there was another reason Allison was so reluctant to commit to Scott.

•○•

The trip to Beacon happened four days later, when Stiles’ face was finally healed of bruise and split lip. He’d sent a letter to his father about his injury via Colby several days prior, but had glossed over the details of how it happened. He knew what Guardcaptain Stilinski would say if he knew Stiles was being harassed at the weyr…. but his father would have no problem believing his son capable of falling beneath a dragon-panicked herdbeast.

He was also down to only one crutch, and using it grew less and less painful as the bruising of his ribs and back dimmed from bright purple to faded greeny-yellow. Just that morning, Syleth had nudged him with her snout in the weyrling quarters and actually _teased_ him about them. 

_‘We match,’_ she’d said smugly, before Stiles threw his shirt at her head.

“You do realize we’re only staying for dinner,” Derek noted as Stiles hobbled out of the weyrling barracks, dark eyebrows peaking at the heavy satchel slung over Stiles’ shoulder. He reached for the bag and frowned at its weight, then shouldered it himself.

Derek was dressed more nicely than his usual battered riding leathers – the clothing was still practical rather than formal garb, but the hood of his leather’s had ornate trim around the edges. His boots were knee-high and a deep brown color that matched his gloves, and all of it was lined with cozy-looking fur.

Stiles’ weyrling garb was that of every other weyrling, though in winter they were each issued a heavy oiled leather cloak of a uniform size. It had a fleecy lining that was plenty warm but smelled faintly of sheep when damp. He would have been painfully underdressed for dinner with a Holder lord if he hadn’t known Chris so well. 

Stiles tore his eyes away from the way the dark leather cupped Derek’s biceps and grinned at the older rider innocently. “Laura gave me two bottles of the finest Tillek red,” he said, sweetly. “Just a little something to butter up the good folks leading Beacon Hold on this highly critical diplomatic mission.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “I told Laura she should have left this to Allison. Did you insulate them for the trip _between_?”

“Of course! I’m no fool,” Stiles said, rolling his eyes right back. The frigid temperatures that occurred when dragons teleported from place to place could shatter glass and spoil food. The wine bottles were wrapped in layers of fur and carefully packed to avoid damage. “Besides, Allison’s still not confident enough to go home, so you’re stuck with me. Besides, she and Lustreth aren’t comfortable with long separations.”

“And you and Syleth are?”

“The most we’ve done is five candlemarks apart,” Stiles admitted, unsure of how that number would be received. 

Derek actually looked impressed at that. “She’s young for that kind of time,” he noted, begrudgingly. 

“Laura had me helping Lydia in the library, and it was hard for her to make it up the steps,” Stiles said with a shrug. It was only a partial lie – the steps had been a factor, as had Peter’s constant, gloomy presence. “We should be fine for a dinner.”

 _‘Five candlemaks is long enough,’_ Syleth thought at Stiles, a slight hint of distress in her tone. 

‘Dinner won’t take that long,’ Stiles promised. ‘Three at most.’

 _‘Good,’_ she thought. _‘In the meantime, I will stay with Lustreth. Allison says she will oil us both.’_

‘She’s going to spoil you,’ Stiles complained out of habit, huffing out a little laugh at the feel of Syleth’s indignation. When his eyes refocused on Derek he realized that the other man was waiting for his telepathic conversation to finish.

Seeing that Stiles was with him once again, Derek continued. “If you begin to feel the slightest strain on your bond, you say something. A hundred yards is different from a hundred miles. It can also be unnerving for the dragonet to feel you go between without them… There’s a—a blip in the connection, where your thoughts aren’t accessible. It can be frightening.”

 _‘I won’t be frightened,’_ Syleth promised. Stiles thought encouraging, loving thoughts at her. 

“I know you’ll bring me back in a moment if I need it,” Stiles told him, surprised by how much he’d grown to trust Derek. They’d only spoken a handful of times, really. Sometimes they said hello in passing, as Derek climbed the steps or when they brushed elbows at the doorway to the great hall – but something about the older rider set Stiles at ease.

Derek nodded. “You look well,” he said, after a moment of quiet. “Amazing what being allowed to eat will do for a man.”

Stiles laughed. “Are you calling me fat, rider Hale?”

Derek snorted. “If so, I’m sure Lycanth can handle it.”

They walked out into the caldera together, the huge peaks casting long afternoon shadows across the snow-covered bowl. Most of Pern’s weyrs were founded in the seismically active locations necessary to produce a geothermal hatching ground, which usually meant distant mountain peaks or, in the case of Ista, a barrier island. It was terribly cold in the upper reaches of the Beacon range, and the weyr had already received substantially more snow than usual that year.

Lydia had a theory that this excess snow – some of which was gray in hue rather than white – was the product of early threadfall freezing and shattering in the upper atmosphere. Stiles wasn’t sure if he found that comforting or terrifying – could Thread really have begun to fall without anyone on Pern realizing it? Could these peaceful drifts be the remains of murderous organisms that devoured organic life? 

The thought made him shudder.

Threaddust or otherwise, the weyr was beautiful beneath it’s blanket of snow. The air was so cold that the hot vents along the outer wall of the hatching ground belched forth steam and melted patches along the eastern wall. 

Lycanth, Derek’s bronze, was all tacked up and waiting patiently for his charges. He was a huge dragon, each of his powerful hind legs longer than Stiles was tall, and his huge barrel chest had already been latched and cross-lashed with the complicated array of leather harness and saddle that would allow Derek and Stiles to ride together safely. The saddle sat at the base of his neck, over his shoulders and in front of the huge transluscent wings.

His size left Stiles feeling very small and very breakable.

Derek must have been studying Stiles’ expression, because his eyebrows climbed up his forehead in skeptical surprise. “Have you ridden a dragon before?”

“Um,” he said, wincing at the waver in his voice. Most candidates who were Searched the traditional way entered the weyr on dragonback, but Stiles had come on foot. 

“By Faranth, really?” Derek groaned, running a hand through his hair. “What is Finstock teaching you lot? Weyrlings should practice riding well before their own dragons take wing.”

“We’re only on mounting and dismounting,” Stiles said, sheepishly. Finstock’s brown was substantially smaller than Derek’s huge bronze, and even Scott’s Kaelith wasn’t quite so bold and intimidating – likely because he, like Scott, frequently acted more like an adorable puppy than a ferocious protector of Pern. “Mounting I can do! I’m excellent at mounting.”

Syleth snickered in the back of his mind – for a dragon that was technically a child, she occasionally had a very dirty sense of humor.

Stiles snapped his mouth shut and felt his cheeks go red and hot. Derek’s expression had gone stiff, as though he’d just tasted something unpleasant. Maybe he’d chalk the blush up to the wind chill? ‘Juuuust the wind-chill, definitely just the wind-chill…’ Stiles thought, feeling Syleth laugh at him.

“Well,” Derek said, clearing his throat. “Show me what you’ve got, then. You’re going to sit in front of me on the saddle, so once you get a leg over you’ll move all the way forward. Lycanth, would you?”

Lycanth knelt down, lowering his front leg to make a step for Stiles. Stiles took two steps forwards, then reached out to lay a hand on the dragon’s side. “Thanks for the lift,” he told the bronze politely, then wrapped his left hand around the handhold and hoisted himself up.

The act would have been easier without a broken foot – but it involved more upper body strength than anything else. He pulled himself up, found the leather stirrup with his left toes and heaved his right over the top of the saddle. It felt ungainly and awkward, and sent a twinge of pain through his newly-healed ribs that had Stiles whimpering pathetically as he settled in the seat. 

Still, he hadn’t made a fool of himself in front of Derek, and that was the most important thing at the moment.

 _‘Alright?_ Syleth asked anxiously, feeling the twinge of his wounds.

‘Alright,’ Stiles agreed. 

_‘Lycanth promises he’ll take good care of you,’_ she told him, sweetly. Stiles gave the massive bronze’s broad shoulder a gentle, grateful pat.

Derek, of course, made hopping aboard the dragon look graceful and effortless. He stood on Lycanth’s leg and hooked a strap at the back of the saddle through the pack Stiles had brought, deftly secured it against the dragon’s flank. He then did the same with Stiles’ single crutch, careful to ensure that it wouldn’t slip free. He then vaulted up, sliding in behind Stiles and scooting forwards until his legs cradled Stiles’ hips.

It wasn’t as awkward as it could be – Derek had selected a two-person saddle with a low ridge between their bodies, so his groin wasn’t flush against Stiles’ backside – but it didn’t take much imagination to make their close proximity feel intimate.

“Now,” said Derek, right in Stiles ear. “You need to strap your legs into the front stirrups,” Derek instructed, pointing a gloved hand. “Hook your boot under the, yeah, just like that.”

Stiles shivered, leaning forward and adjusting the straps. He knew some experienced riders preferred to ride without being locked into their harness, but he wasn’t about to press his luck. Once he was secured to the saddle, Derek unclipped a warm leather riding cap from the right side of the harness and shoved it into Stiles’ hands. It was oiled leather and fur lined, and had a pair of goggles set into it that could be pulled down and adjusted once the cap was secured beneath the chin. 

“Put this on,” he ordered, mouth sweeping close to Stiles’ ear. Somewhere in the bag of his mind Syleth was emitting the draconic equivalent of hysterical giggles. Stiles tried to focus on his hands and ignore the feeling of hot breath against the nape of his neck.

“Sometimes I envy the riders of Ista,” Derek admitted, as Stiles adjusted the cap. “Imagine having warm, sunny weather all year round.” 

“No snow to freeze early thread,” Stiles pointed out, and Derek inclined his head in a nod. 

“Fair enough… though they’ve got plenty of ocean to drown it,” he said, mouth again close to Stiles’ ear. The warm leather between their bodies at least spared Stiles the sweet torture of feeling his breath on the back of his neck.

Since this is your first flight, I’ll give you an overview of the weyr,” Derek said. “Give you a chance to feel what it’s like to ride properly. Then I’ll tap your shoulder three times before we go _between_ , and you should take a deep breath and hold it throughout. The jump to Beacon Hold should take no more than four seconds – I recommend counting down to keep yourself focused.”

“Okay,” Stiles agreed, taking a deep breath.

Then, without warning, Derek’s arm slid around Stiles’ side to grip his hip, and Lycanth launched them skywards. The bronze body coiled down like a spring and then shot upwards in a single heartbeat, the downbeat of his great wings snapping in the winter air.

Stiles felt himself whoop with the exhilaration of the motion, and couldn’t find it within himself to feel embarrassed.

Lycanth climbed at a breakneck speed, the angle sharp enough to have Stiles’ sliding back in his seat towards Derek.

Derek, who was _laughing_ over the rush of wind and cold. Lycanth crested the top of the caldera and circled, the angle of his ascent slowly lowering until Stiles was nearly horizontal, leaning forwards as though he were riding a runnerbeast.

Once they were upright again, the massive thrust and pull of Lycanth’s wings beats fell into a steady rhythm, the tack and saddled rocking gently as they moved. Stiles couldn’t help but lean out over the muscular bronze shoulder, staring down at the grounds of the weyr. He could see the oblong shape of the caldera, the lake on one side steaming softly, heated from beneath by geothermal fires. The path that lead down to the rolling foothills of the Beacon Range was invisible in the snow, each cranny and crevasse in the mountains impassable and identical in the winter months.

Lycanth turned, shifting his entire form until Stiles and Derek were nearly perpendicular to the earth below, and Stiles whooped again in terror and exhilaration. Derek’s arm around his waist squeezed tighter, and he gave Lycanth a playful smack with the palm of his free hand.

Stiles had the sneaking suspicion that the bronze was showing off.

The feeling of soaring over Pern, as high as the birds, was like nothing Stiles could ever have imagined. By Faranth, he couldn’t wait to do this with Syleth! He imagined that with the shared consciousness of their bond, the experience would be ten times better – and ten times less frightening.

Lycanth finished his circle of the weyr and shot off in what was presumably the direction of Beacon Hold. For a few long moments the sheer excitement of flight had Stiles completely oblivious to the cold, but it didn’t take long for the biting wind to come to the forefront of his mind. Lycanth’s body beneath them was surprisingly warm, as was the form of Derek behind him. Even so, he tightened his cloak around his shoulders and Derek evidently took that act as permission to send them _between_.

He tapped Stiles’ shoulder three times, and Stiles obediently inhaled. Then, before he could really brace himself, the world around him winked out into blackness.

There was no sensation of movement – no wind in his hair, nothing beyond his own heartbeat and the press of Derek and Lycanth against him, invisible and yet present all at once. He tried to count, tried to remember everything he’d heard about how to survive the omnipresent cold that existed between places, but the sheer weight of icy nothingness pressing in all around him made his breath hitch and exhale in surprise.

Just when he felt like he might scream, the world around him winked into existence again. Suddenly he was back, and the icy cold of the winter wind felt practically balmy after the dark nothingness of only moments before. Stiles doubled over, gasping for breath as the cold air prickled in his lungs like knives. 

Derek leaned in close, shouting over the rush of wind. “You okay?!”

Stiles nodded, then realized Derek likely wouldn’t see the movement. Instead he fumbled to wrap a gloved hand around Derek’s wrist and gave it a squeeze.

‘Sy?!’ he called mentally, reaching for the dragonet with a sudden swell of panic.

To his immediate relief, her voice answered strong and sound in his mind. _‘I am here!’_  
He had expected something different – for her to sound far away, or for the miles of cold wind and snow between them to interfere somehow with their connection, but her voice rang out like a clear bell within him, and his entire body relaxed.

This done, Stiles was able to look around him for the first time since they emerged. He knew that dragonriders memorized landmarks like mountains and walls, pictured them in their mind’s eye, and then willed their dragons to take them to that point in space. Derek had come into Beacon Hold at a high altitude, and the angle of their descent set the distant mountain range spiking up over walls of the hold like a crown. The area surrounding Beacon Hold boasted a few thin patches of snow piled up beneath trees or atop the crenelated walls, but for the most part the vista was brown and muddy rather than clean and white.

They came in at a leisurely pace, the creak of leather and rush of wind quickly growing familiar. Lycanth tipped his wings like sails as he came in to land, and as they filled with air Stiles and Derek were pulled forward with a jolt, their momentum arrested. The dragon then came to rest in the courtyard, practically hovering the last hundred spans as he carefully maneuvered around the guardtowers and roof spires of Beacon Hold.

When he landed, Stiles barely wasted a moment. He ripped off the flying cap and pivoted as best he could while strapped into the saddle to beam at Derek.

“That was amazing,” he said, as Derek pulled his goggles up onto his forehead and smiled. Stiles was so close that he could see the little crinkles at the corners of Derek’s beautiful eyes. 

“Yeah?” he said, teasing. “You liked it?”

“I can’t wait to fly with Syleth,” Stiles admitted. “Thank you.” He licked his cold lips and watched with amusement as Derek’s cheeks flushed. 

_‘Just the wind chill, just the wind chill,’_ Syleth thought at him, smug over his discomfiture. 

How did he keep getting himself in this position? So close, and yet—

“Stiles!” 

Stiles and Derek both jumped at the shout, breaking apart guiltily. Stiles swiveled again to see his father emerging from the kitchen’s side door – he’d undoubtedly been nursing a mug of klah, waiting for the wall-watchers to signal the dragon’s arrival. Stiles tried once to dismount, then realized he was still strapped in.

‘ _Real_ graceful, Rider Stilinski,’ he thought at himself as Derek slid off Lycanth’s back and turned to undo the leftmost strap securing his legs to the harness.

Stiles leaned over and handled the right one. By the time both were undone, both Derek and his father were waiting with arms outstretched, helping him slide down Lycanth’s flank without landing on his injured foot. Once he was safely on the ground, Derek pulled down the crutch and satchel and, once Stiles had been thoroughly engulfed in a patented Stilinski man-hug, handed Stiles the former while shouldering the latter yet again.

“Guardcaptain Stilinski,” Derek said politely, shaking John’s hand. 

“Wingleader Hale,” John said in return, then pulled Derek in for a friendly hug, thumping him on the back when he pulled away. “It’s good to see you boys. And you as well, Lycanth. Thank you as always for schlepping the Stilinskis about.”

Lycanth bobbed his head graciously, then leaned in and snorted hot breath through Stiles’ hair. 

Derek grinned. “He says you’re better _between_ than your weyrling son,” he told Stilinski, who laughed in surprise. 

“Good to know I’ve still got an edge on the kid,” John turned, gesturing for them to follow. He then offered his arm to Stiles, but Stiles waved it away, preferring to hobble into the hold on his own with whatever scraps of dignity he had left.

They entered through the side door and walked together towards his father’s quarters, chatting and smiling and joking much as they always had, while Derek – stoic and stern – looked around with interest at the hold of Stiles’ birth. Stiles knew these halls like the back of his hand, and yet it felt strange to be there after months away... even stranger to be there at the weyrwoman’s request and in the company of her brother. 

They ate in the Guardcaptain quarters, and John really pulled out all the stops – there was fat autumn duck, peanut soup, roast parsnips, salad and cobbler. Stiles brought out the Tillek wine to much oohing and aahing, and he and Derek chatted amiably with John over full glasses while they waited for Chris to show up.

Stiles had been more than a little surprised when his father filled his cup, but his shock was shortlived.

“If you’re old enough to be a dragonrider, you’re old enough for a glass of wine. Besides,” John added, giving him the hairy eyeball. “I hear you’ve had wine aplenty at the last few Gathers.”

Stiles flushed a big. “Dad,” he said, exasperated. “You couldn’t leave me with the illusion that I was being sneaky? That’s just cruel!”

Really, Stiles wouldn’t have been surprised if Chris had failed to show up. If he was as conflicted as Allison suggested, it would be very in-character of him to give the meal a pass. Surprisingly, though, he appeared in the doorway at five candlemarks sharp, though he hardly looked pleased to be there. Instead, his face was a mask of polite indifference, while his eyes raked over Stiles and settled on the crutch in the corner.

“Stiles,” he said politely in greeting. “It’s good to see you mostly-well.”

“Hi Chris,” Stiles said with a grin. “I’d stand, but this cold weather has really been aggravating my trodden toes.”

When Chris turned to Derek, his expression was stiff and frozen. “Rider Hale,” he said, bowing.

Derek bowed in return, holding his wine gingerly and watching Chris take his place next to John at the head of the table. Seeing the tension in the rider’s shoulders, Stiles knocked their knees together beneath the table. Derek startled and glanced over in time for Stiles to flash him what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

“Any news on threadfall?” Chris asked immediately, almost before they’d had a chance to serve themselves. Stiles laughedat his bluntness, slicing off a wing for his father — who loved dark meat – and a breast for Derek, who always seemed to pick light meat from the communal platters in the great hall.

Derek was, at least, comfortable with that topic. He began a thorough run-through of the weyr’s observations, including Lydia’s suspicion that the first few falls had occurred in the blustery ranges of the north, resulting in ash-gray snow and no tangible impact. “If she’s right, the falls are moving southwards. If the weather stays dry here in the foothills, we could see thread any day now.”

Chris nodded firmly, while John heaved a sigh. “Could we not have started the meal with a lighter topic?”

Stiles perked up. “I’ve been assisting Lydia this past few days,” he said cheerfully, smiling at his father. “Melissa got tired of me chatting away in the infirmary, so they assigned me to research duty.”

“Imagine that,” Chris said drolly. Stiles knew him well enough to take the words as teasing, rather than insulting, but Derek seemed unsure as to whether or not he should be offended on Stiles’ behalf, so Stiles made a point of keeping up his smirk. “Who exactly is this Lydia girl?”

“She’s a scientist,” Stiles said, waving one hand. “Studies the stars, and weather, and records, and all sorts of things.”

“So a conspiracy theorist,” Chris said, eyebrows climbing.

“She’s brilliant,” Derek volunteered, surprising both Stiles and – by all appearances – the guardcaptain as well. Derek was not known for offering his opinion unsolicited. “She was a harper apprentice until she grew tired of the musical elements and elected to focus on lore. I believe she spent several turns traveling, studying at different craftholds and expanding her knowledge of numerical theory and maths.”

“And she ended up at Beacon Weyr?” John asked, looking almost as skeptical as Chris. 

Stiles seized the moment. “Beacon Weyr has kept exhaustive records for turns – far more than most weyrs, apparently. They’re fascinating. Chris, you’d probably enjoy them – there’s a great deal of information about the tithes coming in from Beacon hold… where things were grown, who owned the land, that kind of thing. There were even a few mentions of your family, actually. Allison found references to an Eleanor – some distant relation who served as weyrwoman for ages!”

Chris fumbled his fork in surprise, and pieces of salad went sailing off his trencher and onto the table. “Wh—what?”

‘So he didn't know,’ Stiles thought to himself, oddly relieved. He gave Chris a confused look. “I – I’m not sure what relation she’d have been to you guys, actually. She impressed a gold named Trysth, and married a Hale… her gold mothered a couple dozen clutches… Does none of this sound familiar?” he trailed off, suddenly feeling like an asshole. If Chris didn’t know who this woman was, nothing Stiles was saying would do anything but make him feel less informed.

“Is that true?” Chris asked, knuckles white on the stem of his wine glass.

“I—yeah,” Stiles said, blankly. “We both saw it. Well, Lydia found it and called Allison up, thinking she’d be interested in the record. She was the daughter of someone name Maximal, or—”

“Maximillien,” Chris corrected, frowning. “Maximillien was my father’s great-grandfather. He had three sons. I never…”

John leaned over and gave the holder’s arm a squeeze. “Records can become muddled over time,” he said, sympathetically. “There’s no way to know—“

“No,” Chris said, sharply. He was scowling now, and the semi-companionable chatter was entirely gone. “Not that muddled. I’d bet this Hold that someone in the line struck her from our family records for daring to Impress a dragon.” 

Derek scowled at the implication, and Chris shot him a hard look. “You know better than any that my family tree has more bad apples than good,” he muttered.

Then his face contorted into something like horror – and Stiles would have bet his dragon that Chris had just realized the hypocrisy of criticizing an ancestor for shunning a dragonrider when he himself was ignoring his daughter’s letters.

“I—“

Suddenly, the great brass bell in the courtyard began to clang, the sound urgent and sharp in the evening stillness. John leapt up from the table and threw open the metal grates of the room’s single recessed window, leaning out to get a glimpse of the courtyard below. Stiles and Chris followed suit, leaving Derek to stand frowning at the back of their heads as the three men crammed in next to one another for a glimpse of the view through the narrow portal. Twilight loomed beyond, the sun having set behind the western hills – but even Stiles could see that something was wrong. 

There were strange, smoky clouds sweeping in from the darker east horizon. The long streams of black were -- were they birds? Or bats? But no, it was far too cold for bats, they would all have migrated south for the winter. And yet there were those strange shapes drifting weightlessly in the sky, clearly carried by the high-speed crosswinds that swept down off the mountains.

He froze in place, the bottom dropping out of his stomach. Stiles had never seen the stuff himself – only in illustrations and ancient tapestries, but his mind settled on that horrible word. 

He suddenly knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, what he was seeing.

“Thread,” he croaked, voice cracking as he whirled around to face Derek. “It’s thread, Derek! Thread!”

As he spoke, he felt his mental link with Syleth flood with terror and adrenaline. She began trumpeting his realization to anyone who would listen. There in Beacon Hold, Lycanth burst forth with a furious roar, his neck arched towards the sky in recognition of his species’ ancient foe. 

“Crackdust,” Derek swore, eyes widening with panic as he realized that they were caught out, away from the weyr, away from the wings.

Chris and John tore away from the window pausing only long enough to slam and bolt the shutters in place before barreling past Derek and out into the hallway. “Stay put, Stiles,” his father ordered, before jogging into the hallway to help raise the alarm. Beacon Hold was well-trained, having drilled for this moment monthly since Stiles was a child – but knowing that this was no drill, that this was real and inexorable and deadly, made everything feel frightening and strange.

Stiles limped over to Derek, grabbing his arm and tugging him towards the door. He didn’t need to tell him that Lycanth and Syleth had raised the alarm – they both felt it to be true. “Firestone! We need firestone,” Derek gasped, glaring at him. 

“Are you crazy? You can’t fight an entire threadfall alone!” 

Derek scowled right back, his eyebrows a dark, furious V. “The wings will be here soon – if Lycanth hasn’t chewed stone, he won’t be able to flame – I won’t be able to lead the wing! They need me, Stiles.”

Stiles swore again, then grabbed Derek’s arm and jerked the man towards the door. “Then let’s run!”

It took only three paces for Stiles to realize that _that_ wasn’t happening. His weight came down on his injured foot and he yelped in pain, breath hissing through his teeth. Before he could even voice the issue, Derek was kneeling before him. “Put your arms around my neck,” he ordered. “I’ll carry you.”

“Oh, I’ll never live this down,” Stiles groaned to himself, but slipped his arms around Derek’s neck and let his legs wrap around the other man’s waist, his chest flush against Derek’s back. Derek – careful not to jostle the injured right foot – grabbed his crutch and then stormed out into the hall, one hand braced and steadying on Stiles’ elbow. 

“Right,” Stiles ordered, and they were off.

Thanks to the myriad of drills Chris had subjected the hold to, Stiles knew exactly where the Hold’s stashes of firestone were kept. Derek hauled him through the halls of his childhood home, adrenaline and terror pounding through his veins. The scene felt eerily like his childhood nightmares – he used to dream that thread had arrived and his father was missing, or the dragons didn’t come, or the windows weren’t shut. But this was actually happening, it was real, and he was as prepared as he was going to be. 

Of course, in the nightmares he’d always been on foot, not ferried about by the most attractive man he’d ever seen – but the real world was a confusing place, and that was how it had to be.

Derek followed his instructions without question, barely speaking. Stiles could only imagine how frustrated he must be – he had trained his entire life to launch with his wing, and now they were divided by a hundred miles or more. Beyond the walls of the hold Lycanth bugled again, anxiously.

“It draws near,” Derek said, then swore under his breath. “If it arrives before Lycanth is ready, he’ll have to flee between or risk being seared, and we’ll be trapped.”

“We’ll make it,” Stiles said into his ear, fervently hoping the words were true.

The main hall was full of holders, the majority of whom were – surprisingly – not panicking. Everyone had an assigned task during a fall; able bodied men and women were checking the hold room by room to ensure the metal shutters were fitted tightly over each and every single window. Older residents or those with physical impairments were tasked with grouping the children, taking roll, and making sure no one was missing. Those on flamethrower duty were loading their weapons – both the enormous two-person contraptions that had to be hauled via runnerbeast, as well as the smaller one-man arrays geared towards smaller women and teens. 

Stiles knew the firestone stores were within the flamethrower storage room, so he thrust his finger at the door and winced as Derek elbowed his way through the crowd and squeezed into the room. More than a few of his former friends and neighbors stared, taken utterly aback by Stiles’ presence.

“I thought he rode dragons, not riders,” someone muttered, and Stiles shot a dirty look in that general direction, followed by a rude finger gesture.

The flamethrower arsenal was neatly kept and already nearly empty as people reported for their assigned duty. “Stiles?!” the storekeeper’s son shouted, staring at him as though he’d seen a ghost. “What on Pern are you doing here, man?”

“I need firestone,” Stiles said, waving at the stone bins full of heaped rock and sliding from Derek’s back. “Please, Liam. This is Rider Hale – his bronze Lycanth will fly for the Hold if we can stock his flame,” he said, urgently. “I need three – at least three bags!”

Liam was young and obviously scared, but he nodded and tossed Stiles a pair of burlap bags. Stiles shoved one into Derek’s arms and the three of them began to heap black stone into the sacks, shouldering them when they were dusty rock was integral to the dragons’ flame production – they chewed and swallowed it, and then – through the release of some type of stomach gas – were able to belch forth gouts of sizzling hot flame. 

Derek filled his sack first, then snagged Liam’s mostly-full bag from his hands and ran from the room. Stiles just hoped he was in time – if the doors to the hold were sealed, there was no opening them until the threadfall had concluded. “A flamethrower,” he hissed at Liam. “One of the little ones, come on now!” 

Liam didn’t even think to ask why a bronzerider would need such a thing – he just trusted Stiles implicitly, as the dragonrider in the scenario. Stiles allowed Liam to strap the contraption to his back, checked that the pilot was lit out of habit, and then grabbed the last two bags. Finding it impossible to carry both sacks and lean on his crutch, he dropped the prop and half-limped, half-hoped towards the door. 

Fortunately, the final all-clear had not been called and the main hall’s door stood two feet ajar. Stiles squeezed through awkwardly, tugging the bags behind him. 

The courtyard was darker than he would have liked – it was hard to tell if the twilight was natural or a result of stringy threadclouds blocking out the sun’s dying rays. Either way, Lycanth was impossible to miss, huge and imposing and loudly crunching on the kickball-sized stones Derek was pressing into his maw.

Stiles hobbled to the side of the saddle and tore his flying cap free, strapping it under his chin before snatching at the harness straps commonly used for luggage. He fixed the heavy firestone bag to one, then patted Lycanth’s leg to let him know he was there and, huffing and puffing, pulled himself up into the saddle.

He’d just finished attaching the other bag when Derek’s face appeared at his knee. He was standing on Lycanth’s leg and pulling at Stiles’ arm furiously. “Get off, get down,” he ordered. “You’re absolutely not flying with us.”

“Derek, how well do _you_ know these lands?” Stiles snapped. “Beacon Weyr hasn’t run drills here in at least eight turns.”

“I’ll just protect the hold until the wings arrive,” Derek growled. “You’ve ridden a dragon all of once – you’ll get killed. Lycanth and I have never trained with another man aboard – we could _all_ get killed!”

“I know where the outlying homes are, where the Thread-deniers have colonies. They’ve built with wood, Derek – if you don’t prioritize them they’ll be devoured!”

Derek’s face did something very complicated. The idea that he and Stiles should risk their lives for those who flagrantly disregarded the warnings of the weyrs, for those who refused to tithe and support the dragons, was repellant. But the alternative – letting thread burn through their roofs and devour them and their children – was impossible. Derek was a dragonrider, after all. His job was to protect Pern, not to pick and choose who was worthy of protection.

Then his eyes went distant for a moment, and Stiles knew Lycanth was speaking.

Whatever the bronze said must have swayed Derek, because he grunted and shoved at Stiles’ knee. “Move back. Take the back, I need to be up front to steer.”

Stiles squirmed into the second seat and winced as Derek strapped his injured foot tightly into place. As before, he leaned over and secured – then tested with two shaking fingers – the strap on his other leg. It was freezing in the courtyard, but it would only be colder in the skies – and Stiles had snatched up his gloves but left behind his cloak.

“I won’t be able to warn you when we go between,” Derek told Stiles gruffly. “So be ready – and for Pern’s sake, _hold on._ ”

Then they were rocketing skywards and hurtling towards the deadly clouds.

•○•

This ascent was completely different from their exhilarating joyride earlier that day. Lycanth rocketed upwards far faster, sending Stiles’ heart plummeting into his stomach. He had a brief mental image of himself getting airsick all over Derick’s riding leathers, and felt Syleth quickly erase the image and replace it with one of confidence and pride. Through her eyes he could see flashes of the weyr’s basin. It was snowing now, but the white swirls couldn’t obscure the image of dozens upon dozens of riders gearing up, leaping into the sky and filing into their wings. 

‘Sy,’ he thought urgently. ‘Derek and I need to protect the outer holders. Can you send Lycanth the images I send you?’

 _‘Of course,’_ she said quickly, hunkering down. He felt her tail lashing with energy, felt her snapping at Finstock as he tried to shoo her inside, into safety. 

‘Go inside first,’ Stiles ordered, suddenly fearful at the idea of his dragonet – too young and untrained to blip _between_ – being caught in the open during the fall. ‘I need you to concentrate, Sy. Please go inside.’

Then, before he could spare more brainspace to worry, he closed his eyes and began to visualize.

The first family that sprang into his mind as the Carsons – a clan of stubborn thread-deniers who grew potatoes on the slopes east of Beacon Hold. They’d be the first in the path of thread, and Stiles doubted they’d have the same advanced warning as the Hold proper. He knew there were at least twenty or thirty of them, living ramshackle homes built of stone but with deadly thatched roofs. He visualized the scene and sent the image to Syleth, hoping that Lycanth and Derek would act on his thought.

For a moment nothing changed – then Lycanth began to wheel towards the northeast as the first cloud of thread came upon them. 

The dragon opened his maw and Stiles felt a disconcerting rumble from deep within, vibrating up through the saddle and trembling through his body. All at once a tremendous gout of flame spewed forth from Lycanth’s jaw, followed by a hiss and a cloud of ash and smoke that billowed past Derek and Stiles, making both of them cough and gag. 

‘Shard it,’ Stiles thought, pulling the edge of his tunic up over his nose. Derek was moving in front of him, doing the same thing – clearly they’d need to make adjustments to their garb if they were going to do this without inhaling a mouthful of ash each time their dragons blew flames.

The visibility was bad, and only grew worse as Lycanth’s smoke began to obscure the scene, but gradually – gradually – Stiles began to differentiate the wriggling tendrils from the background of sky and mountain.

Lycanth reoriented himself and Stiles scanned the ground for landmarks. Finally feeling steadier in his balance and more confident in his aim, he unhooked the nozzle of his flamethrower and shouted in Derek’s ear. “There! To the right! There’s already a burrow in the ground – can Lycanth – ?”

Lycanth, as it turned out, _could._ He swept in so low that Stiles feared his wingtips would brush the treetops, then broke out over an open field and spewed flames into the muddy earth currently churning with live thread. The dragonflame would destroy thread before the organism – or whatever it was — could devour more organic matter and cause further damage. The bronze then stayed low, searing two more spiraling tendrils, then jerked upwards and roared, circling over the tender thatched roofs of the outlaying colony. 

Stiles cocked the flamethrower and aimed upwards. When Lycanth failed to incinerate all of a strand or ducked within the reach of thread, he unleashed gouts of flame into the sky, careful to avoid snapping wings, but was rewarded by the sight of stinging, deadly threads flaring red hot and then particulating into ash. If Stiles missed a strand, or Lycanth’s huge wings snagged on raw thread, they flickered between for a heartbeat until the icy blackness froze the pain away.

They did several loops above the foothills, blowing thread from the sky over stray homes and fields and guarding the hold as best they could until the edge of the fall moved visibly south. Then, all at once, the sky came ablaze with gouts of flame that matched Lycanth’s own. Stiles, clinging to Derek with one arm, felt the man before him cry out in triumph and thrust a fist towards the stars – then Lycanth was suddenly blinking between, reappearing heartbeats later at a different point in the sky.

Stiles reeled, disoriented by the reappearance – but it was clear Derek and Lycanth knew precisely where they were. There were roars to the left and right and Stiles, pivoting in his seat, caught an unbelievable glimpse of Derek’s wing fanning out behind them. Boyd and Isaac on the right, Erica on the left, each flying so tightly in their formation that their wingtips nearly – but never – brushed.

Nearby he caught the glint of bright gold and did a double-take. It was clearly Aconith, their queen – and her rider carried a modified version of the very flamethrower Stiles wore, firing gouts off as the enormous gold dodged and swerved with astonishing grace given her size. Behind her fanned out a wing of browns and blues, their wings stroking twice or thrice for each of Aconith’s single downbeats. 

Surely it couldn’t be Laura there – he squinted through the dimness and saw that Aconith’s rider was too tall, broad, and too obviously un-pregnant to be their weyrwoman – but the sight of the golden queen leading their ranks sent a thrill of pride through Stiles, rejuvenating his tired body and inspiring him to push on.

 _‘It’s Peter,’_ , Syleth realized, her mental tone resounding with awe. _‘Peter Hale rides the queen.’_

Stiles’ eyes snapped back – and yes, he could see it now. Peter was proud and tall, the goggles obscuring most of his face, though his scarred jaw and mouth were curled into a gleeful, ecstatic grin the likes of which Stiles had never seen on him. He found himself smiling from ear to ear, knowing what the opportunity to lead a flight against thread must mean to such a broken man.

Aconith bugled, Peter roared, and the battle raged on.

Stiles found himself surprisingly useful as the struggle continued. He knew from his readings that dragonriders preferred to fight thread as high in the atmosphere as possible, incinerating the spores well before they fanned out and reached the landscape below. Due to the short notice of this fall and the near-black of the battleground the thread was far closer to the ground than it had any right to be, and the wings were forced to break their perfect ranks to swerve and dodge to catch all traces of the stuff before it struck. He lost count of the number of times he fired off the flamethrower – and once, when Derek groped for the spare bag of firestone, took a brief break to refuel the machine. Watching Derek and Lycanth refuel was a thing of beauty – the dragon’s long neck whipped around almost one hundred and eight degrees, snatching blocks of stone out of Derek’s fingers and grinding them into fuel in moments. Their motion was in perfect sync – and Derek never hesitated as he thrust his gloved fingertips into the burning-hot, smoldering dragonmaw.

Stiles continued to make suggestions via Syleth, first prioritizing the nearby settlements where foolish Beacon residents had ignored the warnings of history and built wooden homes in stupid places. They didn’t save them all – here and there plumes of oily smoke rose over the ruins of buildings that had been struck by the fall – but they did what they could, and lives were saved. Once the wings had broken into patterns and were covering a greater area, he urged the Alpha wing to fly over Beacon Hold’s prized hardwoods, where several threadburrows had taken root and were devouring the trees. Then they continued on over a field of late-harvest wheat, where he knew a handful of old, poorly kept-up threadshelters stood. There were pale faces in the doorways, staring up at the overhead battle in terror and shying away when flames burst from flamethrower and dragonmaw alike.

‘Yes,’ Stiles thought grimly, burning thread that threatened Lycanth’s delicate wings from above. Ash and soot pelted his face, but the goggles protected his eyes – and he learned not to inhale until the cloud was past and the air was clear. ‘Yes!’

This was what he’d wanted, what he’d waited his entire life for – well, _almost_. It would be sweeter with Syleth between his legs, with his own dragon responding to his every beck and call. But it was sweet to battle against an inexorable, ancient foe and _win_. The threat of thread had loomed over his childhood, over his life, and now he’d faced it down and destroyed, piece by piece, its efforts to devour his childhood home. He was a dragonrider, shard it – he would keep fighting, day in and day out, until Beacon Hold stood free and clear of any threat.

By the time the fall ended Stiles had no idea how long they’d been in the sky. The last vestiges of twilight were dying on the horizon, leaving the skies of Beacon Hold in true darkness scattered only with the bright pinpoints of distant stars and thin thin crest of a moon on the horizon. Derek broke the wing’s formation, instructing the dragons to scan for burrows in the black and, when possible incinerate them. The distant sound of Beacon Hold’s all-clear siren told Stiles that its residents would shortly be moving through the fields as well, armed with flamethrowers of their own. It would be a long night for everyone – though given the season, it was unlikely that the thread would find much purchase in the countryside. Beyond the hardwood groves and vineyards, all annual crops had been harvested for the year. They were lucky – very, very lucky.

He mentally reached for Syleth, surprised to find that he hadn’t missed her at all. They’d been so busy relaying messages back and forth – her sharing what Lycanth was ordering, and Stiles commenting or directing Derek’s attention to unfamiliar landmarks, that it felt almost as though they’d been flying together in perfect tandem.

‘I love you,’ he thought at her, exhaustion flooding his body as Lycanth hurtled towards the courtyard of Beacon Hold. 

_‘And I, you,’_ Syleth thought, adoring. _‘I can’t wait to fly with you.’_

Then she paused, as though listening to something Stiles couldn’t hear. _‘Melissa wants to see you. I’ll wait for you in the infirmary?’_

‘Yes, please,” Stiles thought, aching to feel her warm scales beneath his fingertips again.

Stiles didn’t bother dismounting the bronze dragon when they landed. He was too exhausted, and was certain that if he climbed down he would never climb back up – and he couldn’t stand being away from Syleth any longer. He ached, his entire body was freezing, and his fingers were numb where they wrapped around the flamethrower with a white-knuckled grip. He probably would have had frostbite if the heat of the machine strapped to his back had not seeped through his clothing and hands. 

His father came rushing out of the Hold, his face a white blur as he climbed Lycanth’s leg, swearing and shaking as he pulled Stiles close. From that angle his head reached only as high as Stiles’ chest, but was more than enough for a hug.

“I’m okay, dad. I’m okay. Are you – is Chris – Is everyone –“ 

“The Hold is accounted for,” John said, his voice gravelly. “Shards, son. I _told_ you to stay put.”

“I’m a dragonrider, dad,” Stiles told him, shoving his goggles up onto his forehead and grinning manically at his father with an ash-lined face. “You know how the ballad goes. _‘Dragonmen must fly when there are threads in the sky,’ etc, etc._ ”

John laughed hoarsely, pressing his head into Stiles’ chest for a long moment and then breaking away. “I taught you too well, I see. I love you, kid.”

“Love you too, dad,” Stiles was surprised to feel the pinpricks of tears in the corners of his eyes. His gloves were far too ashy and disgusting to bring up to his face, so he blinked them back and rammed his shoulder into Derek, demanding his attention.

Twisting in his seat, Derek helped Stiles unhook the shoulder-straps of his flamethrower and slide it into his father’s waiting arms. What little firestone was left went with it – the rock was a prime commodity now, and it wouldn’t do for a rider to make off with the Hold’s stores.

“I’ll come see you once cleanup is through,” John called from the courtyard, giving Derek a little salute. “Rider Hale, thank you for keeping my son safe.”

“Thank you for letting us borrow him,” Derek answered, waving as Lycanth shifted backwards and prepared to launch.

•○•

The weyr was just as chaotic as Beacon Hold had been. Even worse – all efforts to tend to the wounded were hampered by what was now a steady, swirling, ashy snowfall. Torches flickered brightly in every doorway and alcove, struggling to illuminate the darkness. Dragons flashed in and out of _between_ , their wingbeats swirling the snow until it flew every which way, catching in every nook and cranny and sticking in Stiles’ collar and eyelashes instantaneously, making him blink and shiver.

Derek slid stiffly from his place in front of Stiles and perched on Lycanth’s foreleg, the dragon lifting it high enough that he could meet Stiles’ eyes as his gloved hands fumbled with the straps that lashed Stiles in place. The fine fur at the cuffs of his boots and gloves was stained black and matted with wet ash.

Stiles pulled the flight hood and goggles from his head, fisting them between his hands and looking earnestly at his companion.

“You were incredible,” he said. The words were rewarded by one of Derek’s rare – and blinding – smiles. 

“I could say the same for you,” Derek told him gently, thumbing at the ash on one of Stiles’ sharp cheekbones. “Let’s get you inside – Melissa should look you over. You’re technically a convalescent, you know.”

Stiles chuckled, and Derek moved to pull away. Before he could, Stiles caught his wrist and met his gaze. The adrenaline of the night was coursing through him, but after facing down his first threadfall he found he wasn’t feeling particularly afraid of _anything_.

“Derek,” he said, snow swirling between them. “I’m young. I get it. And anything could happen now that the Red Star has risen and thread is falling. But …” he licked his lips and tasted snow – and as usual, Derek’s eyes dropped to his mouth, drawn there inexorably by the flash of pink tongue. 

Stiles smirked knowingly and Derek looked up at him shyly, cheeks ruddy in the wind and chill. Stiles leaned in and pressed their foreheads together.

“When Syleth rises, I’d be honored if you and Lycanth would join the flight.” 

Then it was Derek’s turn to grin, sudden and bright – and they stood there a moment, close and warm despite the icy night.

“We won’t just join,” Derek said, his voice rich with promise and his green eyes glinting in the torchlight. “We’ll catch you _both_.”

And then he was stepping away, his strong hands careful and sweet as he helped Stiles slide down to solid ground.

•○•

Since Stiles had ditched his crutch at Beacon Hold, Derek let him sling an arm over his shoulder as he hopped gingerly towards the light of the healer’s wing. It was clear that others had been injured – Stiles’ eyes widened at the sight of burns and scaldings, blue fingertips and massive blisters.

Nevertheless, they passed through the crowd and towards the back of the ward, where Syleth spotted them and gleefully scrambled towards them. _‘You flew,’_ she exclaimed, exultant as she pressed her face to his cheek. _‘You flew, and soon I will fly, and all of Pern will be safe!’_

“I did,” Stiles laughed, tears prickling his eyes again. He no longer had it in him to fight the upwelling of emotion, so he just laughed and cried and squeezed his dragon around the shoulders. “I did, and you will, and we will, and – everything will be okay.”

Melissa appeared behind Syleth, smiling tiredly at the reunion for a moment. When she looked up at Derek, though, her face grew more serious. Stiles caught the edge of her expression and stood, automatically reaching to squeeze Derek’s shoulder in case her news was bad.

“Derek,” Melissa said, quietly. “Laura had Peter take Aconith to the fall. She wanted her dragon to be there, she thought it would inspire the ranks.”

“It did,” Derek said, smiling at the memory. 

“Be that as it may, the stress of threadfall was extreme,” Melissa continued. “Her water broke on the stairs as she came down to see off the wings, and Lydia brought her here as the fall began in earnest.” 

“ _What_?! Is she – is the baby –”

“Resting,” Melissa said, her face breaking into a soft smile. “They’re both resting. She’s in the treatment room at the back. Go meet your niece, Derek.”

Derek was a mess – his hair tousled and gritty with soot, his face blackened save the ring of pale white where his goggles had protected his skin. He looked at Melissa as if she were speaking another language entirely, and then broke into the widest smile Stiles had ever seen grace his face. He glanced over as though looking for permission, and Stiles waved him on with one arm curved around his dragons neck. 

“Go on,” he laughed, content to let Derek and Laura share their moment in private.

As Derek jogged away, tearing off his gloves as he went, Melissa rounded on Stiles. “Well then, Rider Stilinski,” she said, smirking. “Let’s check out your damage.”

•○•

When John arrived at the weyr three days later via Lycanth, the bronze dragon dropped him off and vanished a second time. When he re-emerged from between, Chris Argent slid from his back and self-consciously adjusted his collar.

Derek hit the ground behind him and gave the Lord Holder a surprisingly companionable slap on the back. “Don’t worry,” he told the man, smirking. “I think she missed you more than she’s pissed at you.”

John stepped towards Stiles, giving him a firm hug. They were standing together when Allison emerged from the weyrling barracks and froze, staring at her father across the stretch of snowy yard.

“Alli,” Chris said, his voice tight. “Alli – I’m so… I’m so sorry. I’m such a _fool_.” 

“ _Dad_ ,” Allison exclaimed, her tight expression shifting into a watery, disbelieving grin. She jogged up to him through the snow, throwing her arms around his shoulders and embracing him tightly.

Stiles’ father ruffled his hair. “I think you can reasonably take credit for that one, kiddo,” he said, affectionately. “Now, where’s my favorite dragon on all of Pern? The light of my life, and the only reason I bother to visit this pile of rocks?”

Stiles laughed, took him by the arm, and lead John into the barracks where Syleth waited.

•○•

~ The End ~

•○•


End file.
